


would the sea be ink

by traiyadhvika



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, Inktober, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 24,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traiyadhvika/pseuds/traiyadhvika
Summary: "...and the sky the papercould I not write then,how deep my love is?"31 staig drabbles for october (and beyond.)





	1. poisonous

**Author's Note:**

> instead of drawing (or like...working on anything else i still have drafted smh) i'm doing staig drabbles based on this year's inktober [prompts](https://inktober.com/rules/)! interpretation will be very liberal and verses will depend on my mood as per the tags. ~~but there will be a lot of sot!verse. probably.~~
> 
> yes i know i'm late; no i don't care; will i finish this before the month is over, i'll...try? i WILL finish it eventually, however. anyway i hope y'all enjoy, thanks for being here with my hell brain.
> 
> (title translated from faun's [tinta](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tx3EqLQQ-U).)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan and craig take sparky for a walk

"Sparky? Craig, did you see where Sparky—”

“I have no idea.”

Stan stops in the middle of the clearing, ears perked for any sounds that might seem out of place. _Okay, deep breaths_. It's not as if Sparky could've wandered far, considering they've only been here for all of five minutes.

"I'll go look over there."

Craig frowns at the part of the woods Stan's pointing at. "That looks dangerous."

"What, you scared?"

"Of course not." Still, Stan hears Craig coming after him as he pushes the thorny bushes aside, whistling for his dog. Sparky's almost thirteen now, but age hasn't seemed to deter him from running off whenever he pleased. He could hear Craig call out softly from behind, his footsteps careful and measured. It's probably best they stay back on the path, seeing how easy it is to get lost even here. But Stan's never been one to care for rules when it's family at stake.

"Sparky…?”

He almost trips as the dog comes barrelling out from beneath the bushes; Craig _does_ trip, and Stan bites back a laugh as he hurries to where Sparky is wagging his tail excitedly at both of them. "What’s this, boy?”

Craig stares at him incredulously, a hand on his side. "Not even gonna help your boyfriend get up?"

"Sparky, spit that out!"

"..."

“ _You're_ not hurt, Craig.”

“Why did I even come out h—oh _dude_ , that’s nasty.”

Stan throws the saliva-coated mushrooms into the distance, restraining Sparky by the collar so he wouldn’t bound after them again. The dog whines as he hangs his head, bumping against Stan’s chest. “ _No_ eating weird mushrooms, okay?”

“It’s probably not even poisonous.“

“Says you.”

“Just saying, he looks fine.” Craig comes to squat next to him, running his hand through Sparky’s fur as he murmurs. “You _are_ fine, right?”

As if on cue, Sparky lunges forward to lick his nose, barking happily as Craig almost falls over again.

Stan rolls his eyes as the cursing starts again, but the smile on his face is too big to hide. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

He doesn’t forget to grab Craig’s arm as they stand up again, watching Sparky dash off down the path towards home. Craig looks at him and mutters something about preferential treatment, but he doesn’t pull away.  
 


	2. tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys skip rocks at stark's pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're around 11~12 here

The air moved like molasses in the summer heat: windless, hazy, and weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Craig watched the pebble skip across the pond, five times in all.

“Bet I can do better.”

“Yeah, right,” Stan said, wiping the sweat from his face. Beside him, the other boys were already lined up and waiting.

Summer was unusually long this year, and their movements were languid and soft under the glare of the afternoon sun. Butters’ pebble went the furthest after Stan’s at four and a half skips before glancing off a jagged outcrop and disappearing. Craig went to stand at the back of the line, scanning the shoreline for anything better than the one he was currently flipping between his fingers.

Later, after the day’s inevitable argument (Cartman insisted he hadn’t stolen Jimmy’s choice of pebble, Jimmy insisted otherwise, and this wasn’t anything new if not for the fact that Token had tripped fatass into the water during the squabble) and dispersal, he was finally left alone (and sweaty! it was disgusting) with Stan, who now nursed a new black eye. Something that was at once really dumb and kind of cute, in its own way.

“Taking punches for people is stupid,” Craig said, as Stan came to sit next to him.

“Wasn’t intentional,” Stan grumbled, punching his arm. “He pushed me.“

“Typical.” A sparrow pecked inquisitively at a spot near Craig’s sneakers, then flew off, deciding this wasn’t worth listening to. Though it was much nicer now that nobody was yelling or crying. Craig shifted in his spot, nudging Stan back. “You need better friends to hang out with.“

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, like you’re anything better.”

“I’m _so_ much better, don’t you know.”

“Sure, sure.”

The wind picked up a little, fanning the leaves above them. Craig tossed his now very warm pebble at the lake; they’re sitting too far ashore, and it barely skips once before it sinks.

“You suck,” Stan said, sounding way too pleased. For a moment Craig contemplated throwing him into the pond. There would be no witnesses, but Stan was also clearly able to defend himself. “Here, do it like this.”

 _I don’t need you to teach me how to skip rocks,_ Craig muttered, in his mind. He watched Stan get up again and motion fluidly at the pond. _Whatever, this is stupid._

“Okay,” was what he said, as he stood up to follow after.


	3. roasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> college kids on a 80s roadtrip

Their car had broken down about two hours outside Oklahoma City, on a lone stretch typical of this part of the country. Just their kind of luck, Craig thought as he stepped out and soon discovered that they’d also run over something that’d managed to puncture a front tire. Of course.

He told Stan they should’ve turned around as soon as the engine had started making noises; Stan told him to shut up unless he thought walking back to town for the entire night was something he wanted to do.

So he started a fire.

“Kinda reminds you of summer camp, doesn’t it,” Stan said, a blanket wrapped around him. They’d had some of Jimbo’s old camping gear in the trunk (emergency supplies, packed last-minute.) Not that it mattered, because Craig was _not_ sleeping outside where scorpions and snakes and serial killers could get to him. It was already getting really creepy with all the shadows being thrown around their little fire and tent and the low mumble of the night breeze.

“Don’t even say that word,” he groaned, poking the fire with a stick he’d found next to the low bushes. “This is like, the worst fucking spring break ever.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “You’re such a princess.”

And then, with a flourish: “I have marshmallows?”

Dropping his stick, Craig stared. “And? No crackers?”

“Can’t you be grateful for once,” Stan sighed, chucking the pack at him. They’d have better luck waving down someone come morning; Craig knew this, but would it really be him if he didn’t grumble at least a little. This time he closed his mouth and took the marshmallows without protesting. “At least it’s not snowing, or something.”

“Mm.”

No other cars came down the road, leaving them to the gentle _pop!_ of flames and occasional breeze. They squatted as close as they could, turning marshmallows on their mostly-clean sticks. Craig could see nothing but desolation within his line of sight, prairie grassland fading into barren rolling hills. Perhaps it would look more beautiful with a working car around. He wouldn’t know.

“Think yours is done,” Stan said, nudging him. The smell of burnt sugar was surprisingly mouthwatering at this time of the night; Craig blew on his marshmallow carefully while Stan yelped a little as he burned his tongue. “Ow.”

“Dumbass.”

The bony shadow of the lone tree nearby creeped a little further up as they ate, each time the clouds passed overhead. Craig stuck his stick back into the ground as the fire started burning low, feeling a little queasy. But getting back to the car seemed like more effort than he was willing to expend, now.

He closed his eyes and felt Stan’s head slump towards his shoulder, the blanket now touching him warm and soft, a shield against the late-April breeze. The smell of old tobacco and smoke settled around them, and he put a hand over Stan’s.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Craig murmured. Stan replied something unintelligible, burying his face into the nape of Craig’s neck. It was response enough, he decided. “Let’s get back to the tent."


	4. spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan gets himself into quite a pickle (sot!verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is me mixing up the sot and phone destroyer aus for the crack i've been wanting to write since i saw [this post](http://poshfather.tumblr.com/post/162351362398/) on tumblr. sorry.

Stanley Marshwalker sat in his tiny gilded cage, contemplating murder.

He’d anticipated many things for this battle: that he’d get injured, die defending his liege, get captured and tortured and then turned loose onto the streets in chains and rags. All tragedies expected to befall a warrior of the elven kingdom during times of war.

But he’d never expected to be turned into a _rat_.

(Just the thought of being tiny, _stark naked_ , and stuck in a cage carried around by his mortal enemy at all times was very, very...bad.)

It didn’t help that Feldspar seemed to have no intention of turning him back. At this point, his cage stuffed inside one of the many pouches the thief kept on his person, Stan wasn’t entirely sure _what_ Feldspar wanted with him. He’d heard the grand fatass’ muffled voice over a few conversations at this point, conversations which never really amounted to much of anything. It seemed that Stan’s disappearance was now largely rumored to be him dying some gruesome death out in Wormsley Woods, a death that mangled his body beyond recognition. Cartman had sounded convinced.

Shit.

As his thoughts shifted to whether or not Kyle would be able to sense his presence like this, he felt the confines of the darkness give away to light above. The cage shook, and Stan lunged towards the culprit, sinking his sharp little teeth into the gloved fingers reaching for him.

“Ow, fuck!”

Whatever words Stan had been saving for the thief turned into indignant squeaks the moment they left his mouth, as his cage was rudely thrown onto a soft surface, bouncing once—a bed, maybe. The impact left him groggy as he struggled to look up at his captor.

“You really want to die, don’t you,” Feldspar said, looking down at him. They were alone in the room—the thief’s quarters, maybe. It was more austere than Stan had expected, the only clutter he could see belonging to the bookshelf and its groaning excesses, and the amount of star-charts hanging off the wall next to it. So he liked to read, huh. Maybe there would be a spell in there somewhere to right all of this—

Then Stan saw the block of cheese on the table, and realized just how hungry he was.

It wasn’t something that escaped Feldspar’s attention. “Not after you bit me, rat.”

_Squeak._

There was a hesitation in his eyes that Stan had never seen before—and something like pity, almost. It only led to more squeaks, before Feldspar eventually came close again, gingerly picking up the cage.

“Don’t try to run,” he said, eye-level with the rat. Stan could feel him sizing him up, less wary than curious now. “Fatass keeps cats around. You don’t know anything about how to be a rat, do you, Marshwalker?”

That was unfortunately true. Stan was set rather gently onto the desk next to the cheese.

“I gotta say, you’re a little less ugly like this.”

Stan ignored him, opting to fill his stomach first instead, only realizing halfway through his third bite that maybe this was some kind of trick. The cheese didn’t _taste_ poisoned, but that had never been cause to not worry. The very fact that the thief was even somewhat looking after him was uncharacteristic as far as he was concerned.

“It’s not poisoned,” Feldspar supplied behind him, somewhat unhelpfully. “I mean, it’d be so much easier killing you with a dagger if I wanted to. You know.”

“…”

“This is really stupid, talking to a rat…”

 _You were the one who put this spell on me in the first place_ , Stan wanted to scream, but it all just came out as a series of angry chittering. He slapped his tail slapping the desk in agitation. _What the fuck do you want me like this for then? Is this some new form of torture?_

Feldspar frowned at him, reaching out a hand, then retracting it slightly as Stan batted his fingers away. “Hey, calm down. I didn’t want…I didn’t know this was going to happen. You can understand me, right?”

Stan nodded, the confusion at the pit of his stomach churning into something more sinister as Feldspar sighed and leaned forward, his next words made all the more terrifying by his flat delivery.

“I have no idea how to change you back.”


	5. chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> haunted house shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didn't know how to deal with this prompt but i saw a hc somewhere that craig is germaphobic, so

“Ghosts are stupid.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are!”

“…God, you’re so _annoying_ , Craig.”

They stood in front of the display proudly proclaiming the house _Spooky Wonderland Haunted House, renovated with all-new scares!_

Craig pointed at the last line, which read _fun for ages 8-14!_ “You can’t be serious about this.”

 

* * *

 

Stan was serious.

“Great,” Craig mumbled as he was dragged through the quickly-moving line, one hand locked in Stan’s iron grip and the other carrying an oversized stuffed cow. The security waved them in like there was nothing out of the ordinary with two gangly high-schoolers (alright, maybe it was just Craig) strutting into a kiddie paradise. “This is…great.”

“Don’t be such a fucking chicken,” Stan said, before pushing him inside the dark gaping hole that served as a door.

Craig wasn’t scared of ghosts. He was even less scared of ghosts that weren’t even real, just underpaid employees dolled up in shitty costume makeup and in outfits that looked like they were patched together last-minute with scraps from the local Jo-Ann’s dumpster. They were sixteen now, too old to be wandering around in this hellhole with a bunch of fucking elementary school students shrieking next to them.

He just wanted to go home, lay down, and sleep off the calories from the hot dogs and spicy nuggets and the extra large blooming onion they’d consumed earlier.

Stan, on the other hand, clung to his arm like a magnet.

“Who’s chicken now, huh,” he said, poking Stan in the cheek with the stuffed cow. Despite how valiantly he’d persevered through the initial stretch of talking paintings and mechanical ghosts, the moment the ghoul had jumped out at them behind an empty mirror Stan had screamed and almost knocked both of them to the floor.

“I was _acting_ ,” Stan shot back, but his grip didn’t lessen one bit. God, he was worse than Tweek; at least Tweek would’ve punched the ghoul instead of Craig. “Watch where you’re stepping.”

“I don’t need you to tell me th—”

“Look out!”

The bat swooped towards them from seemingly nowhere—and it didn’t take any time at all for Craig to register this was a _real live fucking bat_ as its tiny nasty claws scraped the top of his hat. This…was not supposed to happen. It was _disgusting._ He yelled, dropping the cow (and Stan, maybe, he really couldn’t tell with everyone else starting to scream around them), and threw his fist into the air—

—which connected with something decidedly flesh-like and—oh, _fuck_.

 

* * *

 

Stan was the first one to speak up as they sat on one of the benches at the bus stop outside the fair, waiting. “You got that vampire real good, you know. At least they didn’t call the cops…?”

“Shut the fuck up.” And then, “You know those things could have rabies, right? I’m calling pest control tomorrow.”

“Craig, you have a guinea pig.”

“…”

He felt Stan put an arm around him, squeezing his shoulder. “Sorry, babe.”

“Don’t.” But Craig didn’t nudge his arm away. “You owe me one now, Marsh.”

“I’ll get you a new pet chicken.”

“Fuck _off_.”


	6. drooling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au + 2nd person pov; 19th century vampire craig/werewolf stan

You arrive home just before dawn breaks, and realizes he hasn’t yet returned.

The mansion is still—you hear none of the usual snoring, nor does anything seem out of place. The books you left piled high and unsteady on the small table near the door are still there, wobbling slightly in the gust of wind you bring inside with you. It is still dark, but that has never bothered you in the slightest.

You don’t worry until you sit down in front of the fireplace in the study, reach for the pot of ink and parchment after you’ve thoroughly cleaned yourself in the washroom. You’d heard through the grapevine that your sister had been complaining about not hearing from you for a while now, and you wonder, irritably, what trouble she has gotten into this time. And then you remember how full the moon had been last night.

(Maybe your memory is finally faltering—after centuries of staying away, you’re still finding it hard to adjust to the presence of the living around you again.)

You walk to the window, lift the heavy brocade curtains, and hiss at the first rays of sunlight peeking through. Stan isn’t as careful as you are, although he has never strayed too far from home whenever these urges begin at the behest of the moon. More often than not you have come home from your nightly hunts to find him upended in the kitchen, or the drawing room, any room other than your shared bedroom after these spells—naked and fast asleep, drool shaken from corners of his mouth as he groans and swats your hands away. You will never say it to his face, but it is a most endearing sight.

Perhaps he is only delayed by the usual bout of disorientation that comes with such a transformation. You sit down again and start writing.

The minutes tick by, time that by and large does not register to you. By the time you finish the letter, you see your candle has already burnt low. You feel a wave of fatigue wash over your body as you stand—daytime is not for the likes of you.

But it is for Stan. You set the letter aside and wander back downstairs until you are standing in front of the heavy oaken doors, listening. He could always smell you before you sense him, and right now you sense nothing but the rustle of the trees in the expansive grounds outside.

(A little part of you sighs—the part that is always wondering, nagging, prickling—if he’s well and truly gone, not taken by hunters because you know he would fight with his life, but  _ gone _ . It has never been easy living with you, a fact that you will never admit but internally. And it will never be.)

You take a deep breath, thinking about how many steps it takes to the shelter of the dark forest behind the little door in the kitchen, and then you feel the wind change.

It is the sound of a carriage, riding up to your door, the stomping of hooves and whinnying of horses giving it away. You frown: this is no time for a vampire to be receiving visitors, and what visitors you tend to receive would know it well.

But you also sense something else.

Someone raps at the door three times in quick succession, and you, standing where the light will not touch, say nothing. Your door will always open for the one calling, that much you know.  


A voice rings out as the door opens just a crack. “Craig?”

“…”

“I’m sorry—“ he doesn’t seem to be able to see you from where you’re standing, but he’s there, and not naked, in clothes that look familiar but do not belong to him. “I passed out in town and Token found me—are you home?”

Ah.

You slip out of the shadows slowly as he closes the door, his vision adjusting to the darkness once more. You don’t give him the time; here, in the dim lamplight along the wall, you reach out and take hold of him.

Stan yelps, but only briefly as he realizes it’s you. 

“I’m back,” he says, a little hoarsely as he squeezes your hand. You can see he’s been scrubbed clean, and there’s very little in way of recognizing what he is or had been. None of it matters, really; you call him an idiot for taking so long and drag him into the kitchen, before you will inevitably pass out at the table while he complains about having to eat meat for the seventh time in two days.

In the distance you hear the clatter of stone as the carriage leaves, seemingly satisfied. A mental note is made to send Token something later, perhaps the dried herbs he’s been after. You close your eyes and feel Stan’s arms snake around you, warm and familiar, as you drift off to sleep.


	7. exhausted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yu yu hakusho au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is super short because i am exhausted (ha ha) and i hurt my hand, so. hopefully i'll have something longer tmrw. yes craig is yusuke i dont make the rules

Stan wants to die.

That is not a new emotion, unfortunately, but it is only amplified in situations like these when even crawling along the floor of the gym seemed to have all of his muscles screaming for reprieve. Having to expend spiritual energy almost made it worse.

“Look, children,” he could hear Chef’s voice boom out in the distance, “You can’t win if you don’t train, you see? Now get up.”

It is like he could feel every cell in his body wither as he drags himself off the wooden floor and into the changing room. Fuck being a spirit detective.

Craig is already there, slumped against a locker, his head bowed. The room smelled like sweat and stale energy drinks and someone’s socks were on the floor in a size too small to be either of theirs. Stan wonders if Karen had snuck in again through the back door, but after that debacle from last month Kenny had been de facto banned from entering, so that wasn’t possible. He quickly decides it isn’t worth the last of his brain cells to think about.

“Hey,” Stan calls out instead. No response. “Hello? Did you just die a second time because…that’s kind of not cool.”

“Fuck,” Craig says, hoarsely. He doesn’t even flip Stan off, which is nothing short of concerning. Stan crawls over to where he is and, after some difficulty, manages to collapse on top of him. “Get  _ off _ .”

“How are you supposed to fight demons if you can’t even fight me.”

He could feel Craig stop moving under him, conceding defeat. Fuck yes. “So what. I’ll just die.”

“I thought  _ I  _ was supposed to say that.”

“Ha ha.” And then, with more conviction: “If you die I’d still have to see your stupid ass every day, so don’t.”

Stan yawns and closes his eyes, listening to Craig’s heartbeat through the flimsy fabric of his drying shirt. “Whatever, mom.”


	8. star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan and craig return to the andes but this time it's a date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be a responsible tourist and don't act like these two Thanks!

“Do you want to see the stars?”

The air puffs out of his mouth like clouds, though it’s nearly June. Stan shivers a little beneath his sleeping bag, but his eyes are still fixed on Craig’s inert form a couple inches away.

In hindsight perhaps it had been a mistake choosing to camp out here, as basic as the hotel nearby had been. Though, surprisingly, it had been Craig who’d insisted they sleep out here in the campgrounds. Stan had teased him about becoming sentimental earlier; Craig had told him to fuck off and ignored him for the rest of the night, after the shower.

Now: he could hear quiet snoring coming from the tent next to theirs, the rustle of someone presumably heading to the toilet, the unzipping of a tent somewhere far off. Stan checks his watch and realizes it’s nearly midnight.

“Are you still ignoring m—”

“Go to sleep, Stan.”

They still had a ways to go tomorrow, on this journey they’d brought upon themselves. Stan had been talking about going somewhere for three straight years now, and Craig had only reluctantly agreed to come along after they’d filed for three different insurances and extracted a promise from Stan that they were _not_ going to do anything stupid.

Which, Stan decides, is an immensely subjective term, anyway.

“I saw a hill when we came in, like maybe five minutes down the r—”

“Stan,” Craig says—almost _growls_ —in warning, shifting away from him and covering his head with his pillow. “ _No stupid shit_.”

This fucker. Stan sighs, reaching over to touch his shoulder. “Okay, mister _I’m almost thirty and have never done a single stupid thing in my life_ —”

“You realize that does nothing for your own reputation.”

“Maybe I don’t care.” He buries his face into the back of Craig’s neck, feeling him twitch a little, but ultimately the pillow doesn’t come down on the back of his own head. The last thing he needs right now is for the people the next tent over to come investigating. “You know you can’t see the stars in daytime, right.”

 _Oh, that got him alright_. Stan could almost visualize Craig’s last two brain cells coming together to acknowledge his superior planning skills. But what comes out of Craig’s mouth is: “I’m _not_ getting kicked off the mountain. You know how much money we spent for this?”

“ _Cra-a-aig_.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

* * *

 

Nobody sees them sneaking away from the campgrounds—not the guard out front, who’s already dozing off, nor the German tourists still having beers outside several tents down. Craig says nothing as they shimmy off the faint path used by staff members to get up the rocky outcrop, past the ancient rows of agricultural terraces that loom high above them. There’s no way Stan’s shoes are touching any of that, not that Craig would let him in the first place, anyway. They’d _really_ get deported if they got caught, for that.

Here, well and away from the campground, the cold Andean air seems to permeate his once-warm layers on all sides. It had seemed closer in the daytime—now, the path illuminated by only the faint glow of his and Craig’s smartphones, the top seems a million miles away.

“This hill,” Craig says, “are you sure it’s on the trail.”

“Can’t you just believe me for two seconds,” Stan shoots back, waving his hand towards it. “Live in the moment, or something.”

“Or something.” If he’s remained wholly unconvinced, Stan can’t tell.

The dirt beneath their feet becomes harder and harder until—Stan steps tentatively onto the well-worn path, noticing the signs telling travelers to stay on the road. It’s deathly quiet, a sharp contrast to the bustling noise of tour groups trekking through the congested little path. Nobody else is stupid enough to come out at night.

Nobody but them. Here, it’s easier knowing where to put his feet, and he walks faster, faster, not even needing to rely on his phone anymore. It’s not until he hears Craig utter a surprised sound from behind that he stops and turns around. “Huh?”

“Look at that.” He points; Stan looks, and all around them, above their heads, he could see the stars.

The air here is so thin that he almost forgets to breathe, and inhales sharply the next moment. Craig’s hand is gripping his tight as they find a place to sit, right in the middle of the path, looking up all the while. The twinkling lights seemed even more than present than what Stan had seen before, back home: the magnitude of the Milky Way scattering across their vision, and the windswept peaks around them in the distance.

Beside him, Craig says nothing. Then, he points: “ _Yacana_.”

“Ya- _what_?”

“It looks like two llamas.” He traces a finger through the air, pointing out the principal stars, although Stan sees nothing that seems to have prompted Craig to draw that conclusion. Though that isn’t anything new, by now. “You just can’t see anything today. It only appears in the fall.”

Stan places a hand over his, unable to control the smile tugging at his lips. “…You really did look up constellations before you came, huh.”

It’s too dark to tell whether or not Craig’s turned red, although he keeps going, perhaps butchering names of those stars that look like snakes or the gods. The warmth of his hand, burning hot beneath Stan’s own, seems to dispel all notions of cold as Stan puts his head on Craig’s shoulder under the early summer starlight.


	9. precious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sot!verse; pov second person (craig); sort of nonlinear, maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for burn injury and uhh implied death of side characters (?) this one's a mess i don't know how it got So Long

she turns to look at you in your dream, hair fanning out behind her, like flames.

“what is the most precious thing to you?” she asks. her voice is a thousand angels taking flight, the river running clear through dark woods. you look into her face, searching for an answer: not the one you want to tell her, the one festering inside your heart.

it has been a long time coming. she reaches out to you, touching your hand. there is a sadness about the gesture that you recognize but cannot speak of, crying out from some deep chasm. you hear someone crying as a voice pleads for you to never, ever let go.

you feel the heat even when you wake to a dark room and silence.

 

* * *

 

you see, and you know, that you can never have everything you want. it is something instilled in you since a young age, since you came to this town and left it, in shambles. you knew nothing but the call of the forest and the laughter of your friends, thieves and villains all of them, but also those who had nothing else left. nothing but a bond, fire-forged, and your vow to them first and foremost over any other.

(you had never liked vows, being tied down by something to some place, but some part of your heart stirs for elsewhere; the specifics, you do not know. you can speak the words from memory: _if we were not able to be brought to this earth on the same day, let us then leave it together._ )

but your treacherous heart knows better.

 

* * *

 

you see him on a sunny day, in a faraway glade that has no name. humans do not trespass this area, mostly; only people like you, children turned out on the streets to become decried in every village you turn, will put forth your lives to do so.

you see him and know immediately what he is, a king’s man, a shining warrior, the kind fairytales are told about. the kind with gold in their pouches and prices on their heads and pride on their eyes when you approach like a beggar does, making yourself small if not in stature then in demeanor. he has the kind of face the people love without hesitation, and in time you know some girl from the village he grew up in will take it for her own.

you do not love him; only his gold. that is what you think, when the dagger plunges down.

 

* * *

 

people do not always know what is right for them. that is why there are kings (to show the way) and their men (to show the way is not always true), and you (to show that every way is a lie.)

you take his hand (warm) and cut the bindings, on the second day. you tell him to go, now that you have what you want, and that you’d better never see him around here again. the herbs in his stomach (churning, surely) will keep him drowsy enough that he might not even remember your face if there is a next time.

he tells you he wishes you were dead. you smile and tell him there are worse things to be.

you watch him stumble away, cursing, and you feel the gold weigh heavy between your fingers.

 

* * *

 

_“what is the most precious thing to you?”_

someone had asked you in a dream, once. you do not remember much of your old family, the one before this one. you remember someone kissing you goodnight, someone holding your hand as you cried, someone telling you to run, run far away.

you see him again in the marketplace, surrounded by elven guards. this time he spots you first, because you are too busy feeding the cat beneath the awning. instead of motioning to his men to seize you, he corners you near a stall.

 _i thought i told you to never come back_ , you tell him. you had done nothing wrong, the last encounter notwithstanding. he carries about him the sort of airs a king would, but you had seen him down on his knees, you had seen him asleep. you have your thieves watching from every corner, but he does not back down.

 _i don’t take orders from someone like you_ , he tells you. he shoves you aside and turns away, his men standing around in silence.

you sneer at them: _what kind of king do you have with a coward for his captain?_

they do not look at you. the chatter of the marketplace resumes.

the whisper in your heart returns when you slide into the shadows once more. but you do not, and refuse to, listen.

 

* * *

 

you loved once, in a tumultuous affair. you do not go near that neck of the woods anymore.

the warrior comes back again and again. perhaps you should have driven the dagger into his neck the first time, because it seems he has developed a sick fetish for tormenting you without weapons.

he does not always find you, leaving frustrated when you manage to disappear before his eyes find you, using all the secrets you know and those you’ve taken to stay hidden. it leaves you with disquiet nonetheless; a thief should not allow himself to be followed so boldly.

if he wants his king’s approval so much by capturing you, it won’t be that easy. if he had been stupid enough to let you slip away under his fingers the first time, there will be a second, a third time.

you tell your friends to stay away. this is your game, something to do in the monotonous lull between raids and missions from the wizard. perhaps he will give up something of value one day.

(if only you know what you wish it to be.)

 

* * *

 

you remember fire.

he finds you this time, not of your own volition. instead of putting shackles around your arms—already too kind, too merciful for the likes of you—he takes you to a house that smells like heather and wild thyme. you think there is a cat, too, because you hear its incessant meowing next to you at night.

you do not remember much of what happens afterwards, except when you wake in the middle of the night, the pain in your back too much to bear. there is no noise this time, and he sits next to the bed, not looking at you.

 _why did you save me_ , you ask, hating him, hating the words that come out of your mouth, hating the heavy thump of your heart. _i told you to never come back._

he does not say anything. you think you hear a sigh, a clenching of hands, and then nothing, for a stretch.

then he says, _your burn scars. the old ones._

you close your eyes and consider the flames.

when you can see again it is morning, and the cat is licking your face like it is the most natural thing in the world. by then you know he is gone.

 

* * *

 

the proprietor of the inn is only too happy to let you go once you are healed, telling you to be grateful, but she does not let you leave without stuffing a basket full of food and medicine into your arms. you never get her name, only the swish of her long brown hair as she closes the door behind her. it will not be hard to find out, later.

you wonder if your friends know where you are, how long you’ve been gone.

and you wonder, for the first time, where stan is.


	10. flowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan has long hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has very little to do with the prompt and includes gratuitous pokemon go content

“You really should get a haircut,” Craig says.

It’s a Sunday afternoon: Stan’s upside down on the couch with his legs crossed, deeply concentrating on trying to take down that fucking Mystic gym they live on top of. Craig’s not the one berrying the gym like there’s no tomorrow this time; he’s got his face planted in the latest issue of _Astronomy_ instead.

“Not now,” Stan replies. “This Blissey just won’t—fucking— _die_ —”

He could feel Craig’s eyes leave the magazine and move on to him, in an act of what Stan will recognize as concern. “You’ve been trying to take that gym for twenty minutes now.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Which means you suck.”

Stan watches the Blissey’s health meter rise again and throws his phone to the other side of the couch. He sits up, a bit woozy now, and feels his hair loose over his shoulders. Letting it grow out had been a _great_ idea back last winter, but…

It really is starting to feel a little hot and itchy with summer coming.

“Fine.”

“Hm?”

“I’ll cut it.” And then, remembering the last debacle that was him cutting his own hair, Stan stops. “Or—”

“No,” Craig says, quite rudely considering _he_ was the one who brought it up in the first place. “I’m busy.”

“Uh-huh.”

Stan walks over to where he’s sitting (the one time Craig’s shorter than he is) and lets his hair down over his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Quit it,” Craig grumbles as he shifts position, trying to get back to his reading. Stan shakes his head, sending hair flying everywhere. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_ being—hey!”

Craig pulls him down by the hair until they’re eye to eye, staring at him intensely for all of five seconds that passes a little too awkwardly for either of their liking. The heavily perfumed scent of discount shampoo seems to be making Stan a little dizzy again (of course Craig would get the wrong kind.) At the very least his hair is clean this time. “What?”

Their noses touch, and then Craig pulls away. “Never mind.”

Stan blinks; there’s a bit of pink in Craig’s cheeks as he releases the hair from his death grip, returning to his magazine like nothing had ever happened. “Tie it up or something, at least.”


	11. cruel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vague fake romantic breakup spy au in fin de siecle france.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> april is the cruelest month etc etc (this was meant to be a companion to something longer but i haven't written that one out fully yet so, uh.) also pov 2nd person again ofc thats just who i am now.

Craig departs in early April, after a lengthy spell of rainy weather had been claiming the city for months. The grey clouds above its skies have yet to fully disperse, as if clinging on to your person wherever you go.

He tells you to not send him letters, for now. So you don’t.

You water the flowers on your windowsill: newly bloomed violet-hued geraniums with their leaves curled against the yellowing walls, and next to them zinnia plants still without buds. The zinnias are not yours, really; you’d bought the seeds from a farmer when you had visited Lyon with Craig last winter, but it was he who had coaxed those particular sprouts from the once-barren box. You had been impressed.

You listen to the music of a violinist not far down the street from where you live, for a few minutes, before deciding you don’t like the violin so much, really.

 

* * *

 

Kyle is in the bar by the time you get there after the day is done. He does not drink, but his apartment is a mess, and yours even more of a mess, so this is the only way. You listen to him rant about work: his clients are stupid boors that talk about him behind his back, the city administration is terrible and corrupt, he’s developing eye problems from all the papers he has to go through. You nod along with him and make the right noises at the lulls between conversation. Still somewhere along the way he says, _hey, Stan, you don’t look so good._

You know what Kyle means, that it is hard for him to talk as you do so freely about things of the heart, when you carry yours on your sleeve. You tell him everything is fine. You tell him about the mutt you had rescued off the streets two weeks ago, about how his leg is healing, and you tell him about the projects you are working on, how you long for the countryside again.

(You have not yet had that much to drink today, perhaps.)

He touches your hand briefly and sighs.

 

* * *

 

There are reminders everywhere: you walk down the Rue de Rivoli and see the stretch of pavement where you used to buy crepes and watch the pigeons together. You go to the riverside and hear the pat-a-pat jingle of dancing monkeys and their tamers, see the mimes in their distinctive garb, turn away from lovers pointing and giggling at the scenes.

You miss your hometown of a thousand thousand miles, across the ocean and half a continent away. Craig has arrived now, surely, and he is without you.

(How can he be without you?)

The dog walks beside you, wagging its tail. You have yet to decide on a name, but when you reach down for it you feel the sensation of a wet tongue and friendly woof.

It is, for now, all that depends on you in the world.

 

* * *

 

You had never been cut out for city life, and certainly not city life in a country so far away from home, where the language is butchered on your tongue (though you can understand it well enough by now) and the vestiges of the old regime have not been completely washed away. You know very little about the sort of work Kyle does, only that some of your old friends had recently resurfaced here, in the most volatile time in years. It had been one of those that had made what happened happen, you are sure of it, but you have nobody to blame.

Once upon a time you would have tried to tell him that Paris would welcome any talented violinist with open arms. Once upon a time you would have never mentioned its underbelly crisscrossed with sewers and catacombs where the undignified still meet in the dark.

You do not write to Craig, for now, or Kyle (who is on his way to England today, across the channel), or any of those people you vaguely remember from a past life. They can wait.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later you receive a telegram without a name, when Kenny stops by and thrusts it into your arms. There’s a knowing look in his eyes as he pedals away, and this time you recognize it.

Sparky puts a paw on your boot as you rearrange the potted plants by the door for your downstairs neighbor. You go home and wait for the zinnias to bloom.


	12. whale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 11yo tricia keeps a diary

**September 15, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Karen came over today to work on our science project. We’re supposed to be making charts about mitochondria and it’s due next Monday. It was raining outside so we didn’t want to go to the library but Craig wouldn’t get off the computer.

I peeked at what he was doing when he went to pee and it was just him making stupid jokes with someone called marshwalker420 on AOL.

I called mom at the office. She told Craig to let us use the computer or he’ll get grounded. I think Karen feels bad but I just want to get this stupid project over and all that. He has a car, he can go to the library and use THAT computer if he wants to message people online.

Craig said I’ll get it later so I’m recording that here in case he murders me and the cops need evidence.

\- Trish

 

**September 21, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Went to the mall today because mom wanted to get a birthday present for dad. I went to the MaxFactor counter to look at the new lipgloss I wanted but it was sold out already. Seriously??

Stupid Craig didn’t come with us but I saw him at the food court with his friends. They looked like they were planning something? I don’t think he saw me (I feel like he’s hiding from mom) but I think Token did. He didn’t say anything though.

Not sure what they were discussing but it’s probably nothing good. I told Karen and she said they were probably just hanging out. I don’t think so though.

\- Trish

 

**September 29, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Stan stopped by today. I don’t really know him because I don’t think Craig hangs out with him a lot. He’s more like Kenny’s friend I think. Kenny’s SO much nicer than Craig. I wish I had a different brother sometimes.

Anyway wasn’t sure what Stan was doing here because he just went upstairs with Craig and they didn’t come down for like two hours. I think they were playing on their Gameboys or with Stripe.

Mom made me take some apple pie upstairs for them but Craig freaked out and yelled at me when I knocked on his door and wouldn’t let me come in. RUDE. So I ate the pie.

\- Trish

 

**October 9, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Caught Craig messaging marshwalker420 again. I told him mom said he shouldn’t message strangers online because they could be weirdos or something and he yelled at me and told me it wasn’t a stranger.

Ok but who is it then???

\- Trish

 

**October 14, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Mom told me to get the dirty plates out of Craig’s room (GROSS) he’s been leaving on his desk while he was out today because she wanted to do all the dishwashing at once. I saw a birthday card next to the dishes. It started with ‘dear dumbass.’ After that it said ‘you are the stars in my sky and the center of my universe…’

I didn’t read the rest of it because mom started yelling at me again and I had to go downstairs. What the hell is that card? Is it a prank? He’s so fucking dramatic.

Also need a new place to put this diary now because he’ll freak out and kill me if he knows I was in his room.

\- Trish

 

**October 16, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Karen came over and we watched The Lion King together. She really loves animals and keeps talking about wanting to be a vet when she grows up. That’s really cool. I told her she'd better let me come over and pet all the animals at her clinic.

I also told her about Craig being weird again and she was like maybe he’s got a crush on someone. Not sure I see it… I don’t know who he’d have a crush on but I feel bad for whoever it is. I guess that explains the card, but it was SO cheesy. Who’d like that? Boys are so fucking weird.

But if that’s true I HAVE to find out who it is.

\- Trish

 

**October 18, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Craig and dad got into a fight again because parents want me to go with him to Denver tomorrow. He keeps saying he’s going with a friend and like honestly I don’t even WANT to be there. My parents are just being the worst right now? Ugh. I CAN take care of myself, okay.

I went to his door after and told him I didn’t wanna go anyway so he could just drop me off at the mall or something when he’s leaving. He didn’t tell me to fuck off, which is a first.

\- Trish

 

**October 19, 1998**

Dear Diary,

Craig didn’t make me get off at the mall because Stan told him it’s okay. Yes Stan is the one Craig’s going to Denver with, can you believe it? I thought it would’ve been Clyde or Token. Like I really don’t need them to babysit me but at least Stan’s a lot nicer than Craig is.

Apparently it’s Stan’s birthday which is even weirder because he has other friends? Why would he want to spend it with Craig. I asked him and he said he’s having a birthday party with them after we get back at night and that I could come if I wanted to because Kenny’s bringing Karen. It’s getting kinda bad at their place lately so.

Craig got pissy and told me I’m not allowed to go. That’s stupid.

Anyways we came to the aquarium in Denver. It kinda sucks (we went to a REALLY BIG ONE in Seattle when I was six. THAT was awesome) because they kept making stupid faces at each other and throwing food around. I guess the food wasn’t so great so that’s okay but it was annoying.

I just hope we get to see the whale exhibit later. I’m writing this in the cafe now because they went to the bathroom, but they’ve been gone for like ten minutes now? If they got lost I’m DEFINITELY going to laugh at them. Anyway I’m going to sign off now and write more later if I remember.

\- Trish


	13. guarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sot au; marshwalker and feldspar team up to steal from the grand wizard

“After this is done,” Feldspar says, “I’m outta here.”

Stan grunts as he rolls a particularly heavy boulder aside, feeling his boots sink slightly into the soft earth beneath their feet. Here, outside the walls of the great keep, the night is quiet—though quiet does not always mean safe.

“Nothing keeping you here.”

It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to work with the thief in the first place. Necessity and his king’s will had brought them together, and once that was done that would be the end of it. He’d go back to chasing this asshole down instead of hoisting him up to the wall to check for the Grand Fatass’ guards in no time.

“Coast’s clear.”

Feldspar flips over the wall so lightly he may as well be made of air—Stan grumbles as he clambers after, with no help whatsoever given. By the time he’s able to stand again Feldspar is already at a side gate, half-shrouded by shadows of the pine trees.

“Please tell me it’s not locked.“

Feldspar smirks and holds up a piece of busted metal. “What’s a lock to a thief?”

It’s always that expression—a smirk or a condescending downturn of his lips, never anything more or less. Stan had been the one initiating most of the useful conversation during their journey to Kupa Keep—every time Feldspar opens his mouth of his own volition Stan would know some sort of jab at him or their circumstances was to come.

He never talks about himself—neither had Stan, really, until that one drunken night at the inn that they vowed to never mention again—barely sleeps, refuses to stay in the same place for long. After chasing the thief around both kingdoms for various transgressions for half his life he’d almost seemed like a stranger to Stan the moment they’d started working together.

And he still is, for the most part. Stan follows him quietly through the hallway behind the door, avoiding the lit torches and following the sound of distant footsteps. Feldspar knows this castle much better than Stan does—he’d lived here for years, after all, until his defection. Stan had only been here as a guest, and not even a welcome one at that.

He takes half a step too far and feels bony fingers around his arm, pulling him back into the shadows just as a guard turns the corner.

“Dumbass,” Feldspar whispers softly, once those footsteps fade away. The hint of concern in his voice is likely a figment of Stan’s imagination—he’s let go immediately afterwards as the thief stalks away, towards the grand wizard’s quarters.

 _As if I want to be here either_. Stan watches from behind a large statue as Feldspar creeps up behind a guard and, with a quick gesture, knocks him out cold. The other guard turns towards him, sword raised; Stan, jumping out from his hiding spot, makes short work of him with the hilt of his own weapon.

The guard collapses to the ground, his weapon just barely scraping the ground as Feldspar reaches out to catch it before the resounding echo could call forth more of them.

“No word of appreciation?” Stan asks, a strange tinge of disappointment gnawing at him.

Feldspar rolls his eyes as he kneels down to ransack the unconscious guards’ belts. “Thanks, Marshwalker. Make sure he isn’t holding a drawn weapon next time.”

Well. That’s more than Stan had bargained for. He nudges Feldspar with a boot. “C’mon, the crown’s waiting. Steal their things later, if you really want to.”

“Wow, the great, just warrior Stanley Marshwalker letting me _steal_?”

“It’s Cartman, who cares?”

Feldspar’s laughter, however quiet, still echoes in his ears as Stan pushes open the large oaken door for their prize waiting on the other side.


	14. clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan's birthday, part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warning:** depression, mental health issues
> 
> this is a two-parter with the next drabble

Craig seems to notice it almost the moment he steps into the living room.

“Stan?” he asks. “Where’d the clock go?“

Stan pretends to be asleep.

(He thinks about the incessant ticking and tries to remember something else, anything, the dripping of a loose faucet, the wind wailing against the walls.)

“I know you’re awake.”

“I don’t want to look at it.”

Craig puts his backpack down on the kitchen table. “What, you think it’s too ugly? You _chose_ that color, remember—”

He’s met with the click of the bedroom door closing.

 

 

On the nightstand is a little calendar Kyle had given him a few months ago, just some byproduct of a social function he’d attended. It’s mostly Craig who uses it, although his annotations are sometimes complemented by Stan’s chicken-scrawl.

Stan turns it around so he doesn’t have to look at it as he crawls into bed.

It’s tomorrow, he thinks.

(If only tomorrow wouldn’t come.)

He could hear Craig move around outside, putting his laptop on the table, opening the fridge. Maybe a year ago he’d have thrown the door open and yelled at Stan to stop, to come out, to stop being a pussy about this. As if he’d understand what it means.

But Stan would almost prefer that, now. Screaming rather than silence.

He buries his face into the pillow, inhaling the scent of Craig’s shampoo.

 

 

If he had indeed fallen asleep at any point, it would’ve only been briefly.

“Hey,” Craig says. He stands beside the bed, hands empty. He’s not wearing his watch, which Stan has never seen him take off unless he’s in the shower. It’s one of those little things you notice about people the longer you observe them—a rhythm and routine to his life existing independently of their relationship, whatever this is.

Whatever this has been all up until now.

“There’s Chinese takeout on the table, if you want dinner.”

Stan shakes his head.

“Okay.” And then, softer, as Stan feels familiar fingers bump against his. “We don’t have to do anything tomorrow, if you don’t want to.”

“Why are you being so—” Stan finally raises his head to really _look_ at Craig, whose face is strangely unreadable. _Reasonable? Calm?_ _Stupid?_ He lets his head hit the pillow again. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

Craig nods. “Nope.”

However much Stan wants to at that very moment reach out and touch his hand—he doesn’t, and he watches Craig leave the room again without turning off the lamp. The door closes soundlessly.

Stan closes his eyes and listens to the monster beneath their bed: _tick, tick, tick._


	15. weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stan's birthday, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the tardiness this time, had some family issues to sort out yesterday. this is based on a true story, sort of, except there's no boyfriend involved.
> 
> (craig's a good boyfriend ok)

“Sometimes it feels like I’m…on an invisible bridge.”

“A bridge?”

“Suspended.” He pauses, looking for the right word. “It’s like I’m floating, and I’m afraid of falling, but I’m not. Falling, I mean.”

The room is dark. Stan moves a little underneath Craig’s arms, turning towards him. “I’m sorry.”

Stan feels lips against the nape of his neck, warm and present. He could hear the clock hidden somewhere in the room, ticking away. When he starts hearing the snores, he knows what he will have to do.

Craig’s voice is barely a whisper against his skin. “It's fine. Go to sleep.”

A car passes by outside, briefly illuminating the room through the thin curtains. Stan sees the outlines of their bodies underneath their covers, the shadows broken up by the clutter lining the wall.

He thinks about bridges and running water and the night sky above them, watching.

 

 

When Stan wakes up at seven like he always does he could already smell something cooking—there’s a sort of burnt quality to it, but this is not something he is used to.

It’s enough to make him crawl out from under the sheets to investigate. He finds Craig in the kitchen and something that bears a resemblance to French toast on the table.

(He’s never seen Craig make anything in the kitchen before, Kraft dinners aside.)

“Uh,” Craig says, waving the spatula around. Stan has a feeling they probably will need to get a new one soon. “Good morning?”

“Don’t you have class?” Stan asks, despite himself. God knows Craig always skips Friday mornings in favor of sleeping until noon or whenever Stan decides to drag him out of bed. Except he couldn’t, this time.

Craig raises an eyebrow at him, but instead of arguing he shuts off the stove. “Actually, I have a better idea.”

 

 

They sit in a corner booth of an unfamiliar diner; Stan’s passed this place by a couple times before while driving to the mall, but it’d always been closed.

“Their pancakes are good,” Craig says, helpfully. Stan notices the dark circles under his eyes seem even more pronounced—he wonders if Craig had slept at all last night, and something wells in his throat but doesn’t come out.

It’s not a new feeling, only in that there’s something much too gentle in Craig’s expression that he rarely sees even though they’ve been dancing around each other for so long now, never saying a word about what this is all about. None of it makes the pit inside Stan go away, but.

The pancakes come to the table piping hot; Stan knows Craig’s watching him like a hawk even as both of them eat in companionable silence. They _are_ good, maybe not as good as his mother’s, but then again nothing is.

(There’s no going back now.)

"Thanks," he says.

 

 

He doesn’t manage to open his phone until they get back, where there’s already a number of unread messages waiting for him: well-wishes, memes, other things. Stan replies to Sharon and Kyle, and leaves the others for later.

Craig’s taking a shower, and it’s only now Stan sees the clock resting faced away against the sofa, broken bits swept away. It’s still ticking.

Stan tears off and eats a bit of the French toast on the table as he starts putting everything away.

It’s pretty bad, but not for a lack of trying. And maybe for now, that’s all he needs.


	16. angular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au where stan and craig never met until adulthood and their first meeting is Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) wendy and stan aren't dating here 2) yes this is one of those they start off on the wrong leg scenarios

“Wendy, _really?_ ”

At least Wendy looked properly apologetic as she turned towards him, shrugging. “Stan, you know you wouldn’t have come otherwise…you can sit in the atrium? There’s free food.”

So much for a _party_.

Bebe was out of town ( _don’t you have other people you could drag here?_ Stan had asked quite helplessly in the car once he realized where they were headed, as if Wendy’s entire friend circle within a twenty-mile radius had just up and vanished tonight to spite him the moment he came into town), leaving Wendy’s only solution…this. A networking event disguised as friendly evening socialization and where a plus one had been imperative. But as far as Stan could tell he was the only one sitting with a plate full of food and nobody around to talk to.

They could’ve at least upped their alcohol game, he thought despondently—there was only some water-downed imitation of fruit punch. Wendy had already disappeared into the art gallery where some new hotshot photographer was holding his first solo exhibition. It was something about dealing with his managing company, Wendy had explained briefly, though most of the business side of things had gone over Stan’s head the moment they walked inside. Stan wasn’t uncultured, he simply had no interest in staring at black and white pictures of Brutalist architecture by some guy named Craig Tucker for two hours.

He ate slowly as he checked his phone, scrolling through a few scoreboards until he was annoyed enough with the commentary to tap out. There were two messages from Wendy waiting:

 

_19:41_

ugh stan he’s so fucking

INSUFFERABLE

 

_19:41_

can you please come in and distract these assholes

this was a giant mistake i’m so sorry

 

“Are you serious,” he groaned, loud enough so the catering ladies looked his way briefly before giggling and going back to their conversation. By now he knew Wendy’s texting habits to know whenever something was all-caps it meant bad things would happen if nobody intervened in about ninety seconds.

Stan wondered whether ‘he’ was Craig or the manager or some other fuckhead he would have no pleasure of meeting. As he flashed his lanyard at the attendant and walked past the first row of photographs he was stopped by a sizable crowd ooh-ing and ahh-ing over a particularly large piece—a blown-out photo of University Village on a rainy day. A place Stan had no inkling about and had no particular passion to find out.

“Excuse me,” he said as he tried to push past the crowd. A man next to him started explaining aperture settings in such great detail that Stan immediately closed his mouth and ducked to the other side as another couple came walking by. He felt all kinds of wrong being here in his collared shirt and jeans (at least Wendy had made him wear something darker right before they left) but at least people seemed to leave him alone, mostly.

He realized he had no idea where Wendy was, and that the gallery was more expansive than he’d initially thought. The photographs that lined the walls were extensive—mostly of American buildings, with a few that even Stan recognized, if not by name. That beige monstrosity he passed once while surveying in upstate New York—Buffalo City Court Building. Boston City Hall. Everything was harsh angles and straight lines, windows clustered so close to one another it gave Stan an illusion of trypophobia, and then so far apart they seemed like prisons. It was uncomfortable, and he wondered what kind of person would see the beauty in these things.

The hall seemed to never end, until it finally did at a dimly let corner. It was there he found Wendy with that forced smile of hers chatting with someone Stan recognized as her boss, and a younger man around their age that Stan pegged immediately as the photographer. There was no mistaking with the kind of face he had—that angular jawline, high cheekbones, thick brows that harshly framed his face; with that, the kind of coldness every single photograph here seemed to exude. And still he managed to look quite handsome, especially in that suit.

At least until Wendy turned to Stan and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him towards the group. “Oh, you’re finally here…this is Stan, he works for the NPS. Stan, this is Craig Tucker. The photographer.”

Stan shook hands with her boss, who he saw in the news once. Then he turned towards Craig, who, judging from Wendy’s demeanor, was an absolute jackass.

“Hi,” Stan said. Craig, looking bored out of his mind, stared at his outstretched hand as if it were a snake. “Um, I’m—”

“I don’t shake hands,” Craig said, staring squarely at him, and Stan felt as if he were being scanned for something unpleasant. The upturn of his lip was reminiscent of a sneer as he continued with barely a nod. “Good evening.”

He turned back to Wendy, who was now looking quite ready to use the can of mace she carried around in her bag. Or her fist. And Stan would not mind a single bit if she did.


	17. swollen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tfbw verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for injury (it's not much but it's there)

“Hey, can you move?” Stan asked from above, hanging on to the ledge for dear life. “Craig?”

“Does it _look_ like I can?”

“Okay, I’m going down.”

This was one of those moments where Stan wish he perhaps had some other kind of power—flight, maybe, or simply the ability to jump down five stories without breaking something, in addition to everything else. Instead he climbed down as quickly as he could, looking up every now and then to make sure the Chaos Agents weren’t onto them again. He’d have to fix his grapplers later, after fixing whatever was wrong with Craig.

He was leaning up against the wall, behind a pile of old chairs, some of which had been broken in the fall. No noise was made except for a small grunt of acknowledgement as Stan crept up next to him to survey the damage.

“Splinters?”

Craig waved a hand dispassionately, trying to sit up straighter. “Just… ankle. Think it’s broken.”

Even with the dim street lighting barely peeking through to the alleyway where he crouched, Stan could tell it wasn’t in good shape. Though he should perhaps be grateful this wasn’t the worst he’d seen of Craig’s injuries before, even considering the scrapes on his face and arms. They’d gotten off lightly this time, but it wouldn’t be for long. He could already hear sirens in the distance, over the bridge on the other side of the city from where they'd come.

“Hold still,” Stan said. He tapped his goggles, giving him more light to work with—after peeling off the boot, it was clear Craig’s ankle was swollen and discolored, but not broken as far as he could tell. Stan pressed on the injured area experimentally with a thumb, and almost got a foot in the face for his trouble. “I said hold still!”

“Don’t make it worse then,” Craig growled. Still an asshole as always, even when injured. There was a tinge of pink on his face that Stan decided to chalk up to adrenaline, for now.

“And you wonder why I hate going on missions with you,” Stan retorted, some heat coming to his cheeks, but he started the healing process immediately. They didn’t use to work together much, even before the split—but now that Chaos was planning something huge, occasionally teaming up with the opposition wasn’t off the table anymore for most of the superheroes operating in this city.

And despite Craig’s tendency to get into _some_ trouble on missions he wasn’t really _that_ bad, and they covered for each other well. He’d punched his way out of more bad situations than Stan could count, and there was something to be said about someone who could still come out of those situations mostly looking no worse for the wear. Stan sat up once done, feeling a slight wave of fatigue wash over him as he did so. “Think you can walk now?”

Craig flexed his ankle experimentally, the pinched expression on his face replaced with some measure of relief. Stan reached out and grasped his hand (much warmer than expected) as they stood up together. “Yeah, think so. Thanks.”

“Don’t go jumping off more buildings,” Stan warned, poking him with the butt of a screwdriver. “I can’t always be there to heal you, you know.”

“Thanks, mom,” Craig said, eyebrows raised. But he didn’t argue further as they started down the alley once more, slowly this time, listening to the sirens overhead. The faint crackle of the police scanner coming to life in Stan’s pocket was a reminder to them both that the night was yet long. And Craig's hand, gripping his tightly (surely just for support from the residual pain), reassured that he wasn't about to tumble headfirst into it alone.


	18. bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alice in wonderland au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please.......... don't think too much about this one  
> also think of craig/the caterpillar in terms of a faun like a human upper half and... not human lower half. it'll make things easier? i'm sorry

_ Should  _ not _ have followed that puppy  _ was the only thing in Stan’s mind as he crawled out of the house that was already falling upon itself, his joints aching like never before. Carefully traversing the broken glass (he ignored the tiny intact bottles lining the lower shelves; he was done being enticed by shiny things in this fucked-up place, even if once, because look where  _ that _ had landed him), he managed to slip away without notice. There weren’t people around to notice, anyway, now that they’d all run into the woods.

Stan dusted the crumbs off his shirt and inhaled, listening for any sign of life. But the only thing that greeted him was the oppressive silence of the woods, stretching on without end.

“Where is this…“

The path before him wound far into a darkness he could not see, its hues of glistening pink and green nauseating if he were to stare too long. Stan sighed, stuck his hands into his pockets, and started walking. If he stayed back there, he reasoned, those strange animals would soon return, and he wasn’t about to deal with being pelted with rocks again.

Presently the path widened enough for him to pass through without feeling as claustrophobic as before, though there was still little of note—the forest stood eerily still, though the vegetation grew more varied as he went on, larger, until he was again having difficulty trying to push aside the leaves. In any case, being three inches tall would certainly do that to one, which told him this was a very little path to begin with.

A tiny smoke ring floated past Stan’s face, then another one. There was music, he realized suddenly, someone was singing, not far in the distance.

Huh.

It wasn’t exactly a nice song (although his head was still ringing from bumping against too many walls during the shrinkage earlier) but it was a  _ voice _ , which meant perhaps someone who could help. Stan pushed aside some ferns to reveal someone in the distance, sitting on a toadstool like it was the most natural thing in the world. Except it wasn’t, once he saw the legs. 

There were so  _ many _ of them, attached to a body that was quite obviously not human.

But surely that wouldn’t be—and wasn’t—the weirdest thing he’d seen today, everything considered. Stan crawled up carefully to where the man (caterpillar? centipede? whatever he would be considered, in this world) sat, settling down on a nearby mushroom. The smoke surrounding them was strange blue color, obscuring his face. Whatever the song had been was now a low, nasally hum, and Stan was beginning to wonder, panicking a little, if he’d dreamt it all up.

“Hello?” Stan tried. “Um—”

“Who the fuck are you?”

The face that came out of nowhere to meet him sent him jumping back, but only for how fast everything was happening. Stan gaped at the creature with his very human face staring back, like Stan was some sort of nuisance to be disposed of. His lips parted, blowing more of that smoke into Stan’s face; he fidgeted, swiping it away, but a sickly sweet taste seemed to linger even as it dissipated.

He leaned back elegantly into the mushroom, crossing those many legs (six, Stan counted as he swallowed nervously), and took another drag from his pipe. The smoke seemed to intensify around him, but Stan could still see those strange green eyes staring back, unwavering.

“I asked you a question.”

“Fuck,” Stan whispered.


	19. scorched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yp craig/demon stan (???? kind of) au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw religious stuff see above

The steady drum of rain atop the roof is about the only thing keeping Craig awake tonight, holed up in his office with nothing but soft jazz coming from the radio keeping him company. He takes a sip of his now lukewarm tea as he waits for the files to download, then sits up, listening.

Between the raindrops and growing wind he could hear something else outside, shuffling, as if moving through the pews. The clock reads nine-thirty, too late for most visitors, too late for _him_ to even still be here, usually. But there is nothing more annoying than having to take his work home, especially on a day like this.

Funny, he hadn’t heard the front door open.

The tea forgotten, Craig stands up and pockets his phone, his rosary, and the switchblade he keeps in his drawer. He’s got a feeling he knows who it is, although it can’t hurt to be prepared.

There’s a knock on his door, soft and hesitant. Then again, louder.

“Come in,” he says evenly, watching the door. It swings open as if with the full force of the howling gale outside, scattering paper; the lights blink but do not dim. Craig watches with wide eyes as Stan stands there at the threshold, wet from the rain, jeans caked with mud. The wild look in his eyes vanishes almost as soon as he sees on the only other person in the room.

“Craig,” Stan whispers, and then falls face-first to the ground.

 

 

“The fuck you got yourself into now,” Craig murmurs at Stan’s inert form next to him, lying on the bunk bed in the back room. Stan makes no response except to groan and fidget a little before stilling again.

He is a mess: Craig had washed off the leaves and debris stuck to his face, but the long scratches on his neck and forearms are visible even in the dark. At least nothing seems to be broken—this time.

“I told you to stay at home.”

Stan mumbles something unintelligible, raising a hand as if to grapple with him. Craig tucks it firmly away, wincing at the burning sensation at his fingertips, the force with which Stan almost pushes him aside. In any other situation he’d have already driven Stan to the hospital, but—

He leans down, brushing away the stray hairs in Stan’s face. The faint scent of sulfur is as unmistakable as the scorching heat in his forehead, the kind of illness a hospital wouldn’t be much good for anyway. The radio buzz says nothing about any accidents nearby, any broken windows or fallen trees, but only morning will tell.

Craig walks back to the office and hangs the rosary on the wall, puts the knife back in his drawer. He closes his laptop, leaving the slides for tomorrow. This is not a holy place, had not been the moment he allowed this to happen.

He thinks about forgiveness, wonders about the beating of wings through the air. But that is a separate world from his now. The people who walk in here every Sunday know no difference, after all. Why should it be up to him to tell them otherwise?

Outside, the storm continues to beat against the church walls. Craig crawls into the small, cramped bed, arms around Stan’s waist. He is so very warm, so much that one could almost forget the north wind howling outside, rainwater sinking deep into the earth. Even in this fitful slumber Stan’s hand has a way of finding Craig’s, their fingers entwining beneath the thin coarse blanket.

Stan half-turns towards him, body trembling even in the shared warmth between them. Craig closes his eyes and draws him close. Come morning and the world will be still again, for a spell. Even if it is not everything he had wanted it to be.

But for now, he thinks about fire.


	20. breakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sleeping beauty au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pov 2nd person again bc that the way things are

“What is that?”

“What are you talking about, your highness?”

“Those thorns.”

In the distance is a hill, rising above all others in this valley; atop the hill is some ancient building, obscured by all manner of briars and thorn. Your horse neighs woefully as you turn towards it, shielding your eyes from the glare of the midday sun. Something about it draws you in, the crumbling stone peeking out from above the dense vegetation, and a light that reflects back at you were you to tilt your head a certain way.

You want to know more about the light.

“It is nothing of note,” one of your retainers murmur, looking down at the ground. “A cursed tale told by common folk, nothing more.”

These are the hinterlands your family has warned you about before, sparsely populated and full of strange stories. The older men in your retinue look at each other with unease, but the vague answer is unsatisfactory. You open your mouth, and the royal hound barks, as if demanding more.

This time, you hear the whole story.

 

 

The thorns dig deep and painful into your flesh, refusing to give at first. But they are only thorns—you swing at them, and they eventually part. It is no easy task, but traversing a cursed land alone has never sounded like a breeze. You had left your hound with your men at the foot of the hill, afraid that the thorns would snatch him away as it might you.

In another life you may have simply rode away. You know well your tendency to run into trouble, and your father’s words, irritating to hear as they were, ring in your head. But the beacon atop the highest tower calls to you, calls to your heart—

(If this is indeed a fae’s spell, you marvel at how dedicated she is. You also try not to think about what you saw along the way, long-dead vines curling up white bone.)

You bleed, just like any other human. But soon you are standing at the open gate.

 

 

The castle is still, even as a thousand hearts beat in tandem around you. The guards at the gate slumber on as you walk past their stations, your footsteps echoing through the great hall. The ladies-in-waiting slump over their stitchery, and the footmen doze with their horses in the stables. You look up and see the thrones occupied, though their faces are obscured by veils. _A sign of mourning_.

You realize you will not be able to wake them if you tried now, all of these people asleep in their strange clothes, frozen in time.

Instead you find a staircase, and begin to walk. That is where the beacon is, where your shining light beckons. Your heart drums slowly to each step you take, wondering—whispering—

( _The way is lost to history_ , your retainer had said, reluctantly. You could almost hear it in their heads, that you are young and stupid and would throw your life away, for a moment of curiosity. _But the spell is to be broken by a prince._ )

Your legs tire, but you press onward, the one spiral to the next. The door that presents itself in front of you, once you feel you can go on no longer, is closed. It is apparent from the dust on your boots, gathering at the corners of the stone floor, that it has not been opened in a very long time.

But in your heart you know there could be no lock, even before you reach out and push.

 

 

You see light: the rays of the dying sun glances off an iron spindle, thin and sharp, where the window is. But how could this have been what had brought you here? Something so small, yet there is no mistaking the beating of your heart.

So you look to the bed, and you fall to the ground.

He is not dead; there is a rise and fall of the chest, however slowly. You stand up shaking and draw close, unsure of what to do. What _can_ you do?

Dark hair frames a face mostly unmarred by age, as is your own. The expression on his face is pensive beneath thick furrowed brows, though it seems to soften the longer you stare. He is beautiful, but there is a loneliness about him that you suspect has nothing to do with the sparseness of the room or the slumber of his people in the castle below.

You lean close to his chest, listening to the sound of his shallow breathing. And the sound of his heart, beating together with yours, seems to fill the entire room.

You decide you want to get to know him, whoever he is.

And so you whisper, not knowing yours are the first words to be uttered here in a hundred years.

“What is your name?”


	21. drain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vampire stan/human craig in college au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for... blood...

“You don’t look so hot,” Craig says, watching Stan walk towards him. It’s windy up here on the rooftop today, though the clouds hanging above their heads seem to exist in a continuum of uniform grey.

All the better for Stan that the sun’s not out. He looks gaunt, and it’s clear he hasn’t fed well in days. Maybe even a week. It’s enough for Craig to sit up straight against the wall he’s been leaning on for the past half hour and _look_ at him. He takes a step forward, frowning.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Stan retorts, but almost immediately collapses onto Craig as soon as he speaks.

 

 

That’s the thing about this _condition_ , Craig thinks, especially for Stan. He finds himself hauling the unconscious vampire into the infirmary, where the nurse as expected is nowhere to be found. Great. Craig checks the refrigerator for spare blood-bags and sees none in stock. Unsurprising, as the blood bank has been low on supplies all month, or so he’s heard over the news. Yet.

“What kind of shit school is this,” he says aloud. He hears Stan groan from the bed and roll over, and decides to abandon his search. This college may be teeming to the brim with the supernatural, but it sure as hell seems to have no budget for keeping them in any way happy. “You, stay there.”

Stan blinks up at him almost deliriously. “What—where am I?”

“Nurse’s office.”

He drags a hand down his face and turns away from Craig. “Shit. Is there—”

“Nope, all out.” And then, sitting down on the other side of the cot (not that there is much space to begin with), Craig reaches out and touches his shoulder, hesitantly. “Alright. Come here.”

Again, as expected: Stan flinches away, though he seems to catch himself before doing anything drastic. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Stan—”

“You remember what happened last time,” Stan mumbles, voice uncharacteristically flat. Craig stills next to him, but doesn’t get up. “I’m not—”

“I’m not that fragile,” he snaps, grabbing Stan’s shoulder again, pulling him close this time. His other hand fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, freeing just enough to expose the rest of his neck. “You gotta _drink,_ dumbass. That’s what vampires _do_.”

All Stan does is bury his face in Craig’s shoulder as the latter hauls him up with some difficulty; it’s always kind of sucked having no powers in a school where eighty-percent of the population could kill him at any time, but hey. At least he won’t just drop dead from not sucking on some human every once in a while.

Which clearly is something Stan has a problem doing. It’s not abnormal—he’s fairly recently turned, formerly vegan, and relies so much on bagged blood that once rationing became mandatory a month ago it’s not hard to see how this could’ve happened with his aversion to even donor partners.

Still.

“Stan, I’m not gonna die if you just take a pint.”

“You said that last time.”

(Last time—well. Craig had ended up in the ER, though he remembers very little of it except Stan’s pallid face looming over his, his shaking hands, the crying. He doesn’t like to think about it, but _that_ had been a real emergency, at least.)

“And I’m still alive. You’re not leaning on a ghost, are you?” This gets a chuckle out of him, however brief. Craig cradles Stan’s head in his arms, directing him towards the pulse at his neck. “Just get it over with. Buy me dinner later or something.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“Do I have to call you a pussy for you do it?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stan grumbles. His skin feels clammier than usual, but that doesn’t stop Craig from clamping his own arms around the vampire securely. Then, in a smaller voice, he says, “You really gotta stop me if I go too far.”

Craig closes his eyes, running his fingers through Stan’s stringy hair—lord knows it’d feel much better after some much-needed calorie intake. “I’ll start screaming if you do.”

“Please don’t.” Stan takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around Craig’s waist. “I’m going in.”

His lips are cold even when pressed against skin, though, as Craig tightens his hold at the sensation of fangs breaking skin—it is not an entirely unpleasant feeling.


	22. expensive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a rockstar and a businessman meet on a plane

The thing about being a semi-famous rockstar is this: at the airport, someone will invariably recognize you. It might be at check-in (staff at the counter are at least courteous about it, especially here), or when you queuing up at customs, or when you’re coming out of the restroom and someone bumps into you, knocking off your sunglasses.

Today, Stan is lucky. He sits somewhere in Terminal 1 of Narita International Airport, far enough away from home that surely nobody will take a second look at some sunglasses-wearing foreigner sitting cross-legged with his headphones in, cursing at his game of Candy Crush. He’s not on tour, and hasn’t geotagged any of his trip photos (though that’s never stopped anyone) on Instagram. Having even this bit of time off to himself before starting to record for the next album had been a true blessing, even though he did get stopped twice in Shibuya and got chased through an Aeon by another American tourist wanting a CD signing.

Now if only his luck would keep up.

The speakers flicker to life as the announcement for boarding to Los Angeles is made. Stan sits up, pockets his phone, and takes out his passport. He’s ready to go home.

 

 

When he gets to his business class seat he finds the seat next to his already occupied by some guy in an expensive-looking suit. Looks like one of those finance guys, Stan thinks, until he looks up. The sleeping mask over the guy’s face features big bulging anime eyes, the kind of gag souvenir Kenny would appreciate (it’s too late now, but Stan’s got better presents for his friends back home.) It looks out of place, but he’s seen his fair share of weirdos.

Stan settles back into his seat, careful not to knock into the other guy, whose legs are so— _long_. The expenses of this seat aside, he’d probably have a terrible time in any other seat. A stewardess comes by to offer them a pre-flight drink.

“Hey,” he tells his seat mate, poking him in the arm; the man tenses up almost immediately and rips off his sleeping mask, sharp green eyes staring at him in a not entirely friendly manner. “Um, the—”

“I’ll have one too,” the man says, completely ignoring him.

Stan settles back into his seat, wishing the orange juice was spiked (it isn’t. What kind of service is this, really.) He chances another look at his seat mate as the stewardess walks off, and fuck—he’s glaring again, even more intensely than before.

This is gonna be a _terrible_ eleven hours.

 

 

The cabin comes to life again as soon as they’re at cruising altitude, as people start stretching, flipping through magazines, and making small talk as hot towels are handed out. Mister Anime Eyes next to him has presumably dozed off again under the mask; Stan takes this as his cue to take off his own sunglasses.

Nothing happens.

He breathes a sigh of relief as he turns on the IFE and starts tapping away at the screen. A familiar name pops up as he scrolls through the music tab; It’s always a little amusing when he finds his own music in the catalogue, but he chooses something softer. Something to doze off to, so that he wouldn’t be rudely awakened by the sound of his own screaming. Stan doesn’t have a sleeping mask, but his hoodie will have to do.

The peace and quiet lasts approximately thirty-five minutes.

 

 

He’s waken for meal service by the stewardess, who proceeds to also wake his grouch of a seat mate without him—good, Stan thinks, he doesn’t need any more nasty looks thrown his way.

The stewardess asks the guy if he’d like beef or chicken, then hands Stan his pre-booked vegetarian option. He’s not _that_ hungry, but at least the seaweed doesn’t taste too bad—

“…Stan Marsh?”

“…”

If anything, Stan hadn’t expected that incredulous tone of recognition to come from his right. For a moment he considers ignoring him, but quickly dismisses it as a terrible idea. People have phones, though from his peripheral vision the guy isn’t moving to snap a picture.

He puts down his fork. “…Yes?”

The guy’s blinking at him, in a kind of bewildered, almost guilty way that Stan finds himself unused to. “Like…the musician?”

“Do you want me to sign something?” Stan asks finally, turning fully towards him. It’s clear that this guy, whoever he is—businessman? Stalker? Anime enthusiast?—is really, really awkward. And sort of cute, even with that expression. “I don’t have a pen.”

“I do not,” the man almost snaps, the hostility sneaking back into his voice again. He grips onto his seat tightly as the plane experiences a little bump from turbulence. “I simply asked a question.”

Stan shrugs. So, not a groupie, just weird. “You’re not the first to ask.”

They fall into a lull of silence as mealtime wraps up. Just as well—Stan puts on a movie as the lights dim, and the cabin is quiet save for the constant hum of engines.

The movie moves fast—some forgettable romcom that he’ll forget the entirety of by the time his feet touches the ground again. A third of the way through Stan glances at the screen next to his, wondering if Anime Eyes has found some anime to watch.

Instead, Stan sees his own name on the screen.

Oh.

“You like it?” he asks, despite himself. Anime Eyes whips his head around to glare at Stan, but he doesn’t speak a word. And for a brief moment Stan wonders, perhaps panicking just a little, about the next words out of his mouth. “…Sorry.”

“I don’t think your ego needs any more boosting by some guy you met on a plane,” he says, a little dryly, as he takes off his headset. Then, “…It’s not bad.”

“What?”

“I’m not repeating that.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Playing hard to get, huh?”

“There is nothing to _get_ ,” Anime Eyes corrects him, arching an eyebrow. Their hands are almost touching against the leather seats, though it’s not as crowded as the rows in the back. A good thing, for now. As coolly as the guy seems to be regarding him, Stan could see an almost smile beneath the glare of the shitty reading lights above their heads. “ _Is_ there, Marsh?”

“Let’s find out,” Stan replies, leaning in and knowing full well just how much he’s being egged on. But maybe this time he doesn’t mind that. Not at all. “Maybe start with telling me _your_ name.”


	23. muddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they go to iceland (shoujo music playing in background)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ me: where the fuck do they get money to travel (watches my account balance become the void)
> 
> i guess this one loosely calls back to day 8/star

“I thought you liked the cold,” Stan said, hands in pockets as they walk towards the general direction of the supermarket. The streets of Reykjavik are not as deserted as he’d thought, at this time of the year; February is prime time to see the lights, as cold as it is. It’s mostly English and Mandarin he hears in the dusk light—his watch reads barely three in the afternoon, and yet.

Craig shoots him a dirty look from beneath his chullo and mess of scarves, piled so heavily around his upper torso that Stan could barely see anything but his eyes and a bit of hair. Though that’s quite enough to tell Stan what he needs to know. “Like this? Fuck no.”

Stan shoves a few fingers in front of his face. “Can you even see like that.”

He gets strangled with a scarf in response.

 

 

This whole trip had been Craig’s idea, likely in retaliation for last year’s shenanigans. Whether or not braving the cold was something he’d had his heart set on doing already is a different matter. Or the jetlag.

When morning comes Stan drives; Craig is uselessly dozing off in the passenger seat, clutching lukewarm coffee that threatens to spill every now and then. Stan still feels hungry, even after breakfast. Subsisting on salmon on rye - or for Stan, grossly overpriced salad - for a few days hadn’t seemed like a great idea in the beginning (it still isn’t), but at least Craig had relented early on about getting a rental instead of taking the bus.

“We’re here,” he announces, gently freeing the takeaway cup from Craig’s grip after they park. It’s early enough that the tour groups haven’t arrived yet; they’re about one of the half dozen cars in the parking lot, staff aside. A tiny trickle of tourists disembark at the bus stop nearby, not nearly enough to crowd up the place.

It’s colder than yesterday; Stan takes two steps towards the gate before feeling arms wrapped around his body tightly, stopping him in the middle of the sidewalk.

“…Craig?”

“It’s stupid cold,” Craig murmurs, burying his face into Stan’s scarves. He doesn’t resist; nothing good has ever come out of resisting a sleepy boyfriend. And it _feels_ good and warm being held like this, never mind the people starting to stare. “Let’s go back to the car.”

“Come _on_ ,” Stan says in joking exasperation, half-dragging, half-pushing him towards the ticket booth. At least he doesn’t straight-up collapse onto the ground as Stan picks up their pre-booked tickets. “…The water will be hot?”

And it is. Even Craig’s expression seems to light up somewhat at the clear blue water awaiting them, bubbling away pleasantly as they quickly slide in, escaping the cold and into steam and geothermal heat. Stan scuttles closer to Craig, who looks like he might just fall asleep in the pool—a pinch on the thigh later and he’s fleeing the scene, water sloshing around his chest as Craig closes in. His legs are so long it’s basically cheating; Craig tackles him and they sink, water bubbling up beneath the clear blue.

It doesn’t taste as good as it feels. Stan gasps as he breaks through the water again, spluttering. The couple swimming nearby stare and edge away from them as Craig resurfaces next to him, grabbing his hand before he could escape again.

“You’re gonna get it later,” he says with some attempt at sounding threatening, but Stan just splashes water in his face. The morning sunlight gleams captured in the droplets sliding down Craig’s face; even through the thin mist he looks beautiful, angles and all. Stan stares, and Craig stares back, swallowing whatever admonishments he’d been about to give out. “What?”

“Your face,” Stan says. He doesn’t have to continue; a little pink flushes over Craig’s cheeks—he’s always been terribly easy to read when it comes down to this, despite the kind of image he likes to project. The next second sees Craig splashing water back at him, and he yelps. “Hey!”

“Well, _your_ face needs a mud mask on it.”

“Wow,” Stan says, the magic of the moment shattering as Craig pushes him underwater again.

(Later, after haphazardly slathering on said mud masks: Stan suggests a selfie, and Craig doesn’t shy away.)


	24. chop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes it's another sot au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'ao3 user traiyadhvika how many fucking versions of staig sot au do you even Have' 'fuck you'
> 
> cw beheading imagery

_I’ll find you, wherever you are, wherever you go._   
_I’ll find you. Don’t forget that._   
_I love you, I love you._

  


He repeats it like a mantra in his dreams, or upon waking, weary footsteps talking him along the weathered high walls surrounding the city. Those are the dreams Stan remembers little of aside from the words: swirling water and indistinct cries, his body dragged along the muddy banks and high dunes. Perhaps it matters not, as dreams do little more than grant false hope.

There is no good recourse for anyone imprisoned within these walls. They are paraded out at dawn for the entire city to see, chained together and herded like sheep through the streets. Stan walks at the head of the parade, head bowed low as insults and filth are hurled towards the. Whatever injustices he has faced thus far, his men must feel tenfold.

Every day, at noon, he sees the axe-man swing down on the chopping block.

He knows he will be the last.

 

 

The expedition had been a disaster from the start, but—who to blame but himself? The damp cell which has been his abode for nearly a fortnight is lined with rotting straw, and Stan could hear the chittering of vermin every night as he tries to fall asleep. He is separated from the rest of his men on the other side of the great keep, as if the wizard king fears rebellion or simply wants to insult him further. Stan thinks bitterly that it must be both, that he is sure in outright combat he would not have fallen to this state.

Cowards have their ways of doing things, in the dark. But not everything that lives in shadows is terrible, he knows—the shackles on his ankles scrape the stone ground dully as he crawls onto the cot, aching terribly all over. Aching for some respite, the sun of the outside world, not just dim torchlight seeping through the cracks in his cell door.

He closes his eyes and wishes the shadows would take him elsewhere.

 

_I am here._   
_(I love you.)_   
_I am here._

 

 

It starts as rumors, passed on one by one to those who toil in the mines beneath the keep. When Stan is not being humiliated aboveground he is here, chipping away at the stones while his feet soak in the chilling water. And it is here he hears it, growing larger and larger until it looms over all of them in the pit.

The king’s guards have been struck by some sort of disease, they whisper. A villager heard moans coming from the barracks. In the throne room, the servants mutter among themselves about lolling heads and deep slumber. The physicians have no answers, and the king, who knows nothing but how to take away, has taken to chopping off more and more heads by the day.

One of the elves comes up to Stan and tells him, quietly, that he might be coming down with the same illness: in the hallways he sees the shadows moving, and feels a gaze upon his body even when he turns and sees no one. His eyes are afraid, as if hallucinations are more threatening than the song of an axe swishing through the air.

“You have nothing to be afraid of,” Stan says, reassuringly patting him on the back. In the dark, their silhouettes grow large by the lamp-light, flickering as they strike at the rock again and again.

The hard surface cracks beneath his pickax. He has nothing to be afraid of.

 

 

Midnight comes and he is ready, sitting by the door. He has no sword or shield, nor the protective charms once given to him long ago. It does not matter; those are things he can recover, someday.

Today, he kisses the faint moonlight upon the walls, and imagines the sound of running water, a familiar rush of wind greeting him. Whatever enchantment has been cast upon these cells must have been weakened through the loss of the wizard king’s men, but Stan could still feel it in the air, hanging oppressively down upon his being.

He raises a shackled hand in the dark, towards the door, and for a moment he is in the fields again, the breeze against his face. His body feels light, in his head.

Then Stan opens his eyes, watching the shadows twist around his chains, shattering them onto his lap. There is no crack on the door, no indication that anyone had walked inside—and yet. He comes to his feet, wobbling some, before a gloved hand catches him by the shoulder and presses him into familiar territory.

The indistinct screams, the muddy banks, the red-faced anger roaring in his mind, all melts away into the present. Here, suspended in the scent of the night air, faint smoke, and home.

He says, breathless, “You really can find me anywhere.”


	25. prickly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> college roommates au where they're sort-of-but-not-really-dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is. fluff o'clock.

Halfway through an episode of _My Cat From Hell_ Craig looks up from his phone at the window and says, incredulously, “Dude, what the fuck.”

“What?”

“That.”

The succulent sits innocently enough on the windowsill, above their air conditioning unit and atop a stack of old textbooks Stan still hasn’t yet gotten rid of. Objectively it’s pretty cute, but it’s not the little purple flowers he’s staring at.

Stan drapes himself over his chair, tilting his head to one side like he isn’t fully aware of the situation. He says, “Did you know these are also called nipple cacti?”

Craig considers dignifying that remark with an answer for only a fraction of a second before deciding to go with his initial reaction: “Why does it say ‘Craig Jr.’ on the side.”

He waits. Stan blinks at him slowly, then bursts out laughing. Craig, caught off guard, almost falls off his chair.

“It fits,” Stan says. “Since, like, you know, you're kind of a—”

Craig wastes no time in chucking his phone at him.

 

 

Rooming with Stan is a disaster waiting to happen: Craig’s side is a manageable mess, while Stan’s side…is something he doesn’t like thinking about. At least Stan rarely leaves food lying around, a small measure of comfort (but really, Craig would outright kill him otherwise.)

They also aren’t allowed pets in the dorm, but it hasn’t stopped Stan from sneaking in things he found on the side of the road from time to time. Sometimes it’s an injured bird (“Fuck no,” Craig would say as he slams the door), or squirrels (“They’re gonna be hawk food either way.”) or lost puppies (“Alright, thirty minutes, but take it to campus police after.”) Either way he’s gotten used to seeing some random animal in the room, and having the number of the nearest shelter on speed dial.

Today, when he gets back after his night lab, he finds Stan holding a hedgehog.

“Do I even want to know,” Craig says as he walks straight past them and dumps his backpack on the bed. He doesn’t want to think about his calculus homework, but it’s not like he _can_ with a hedgehog currently occupying his desk.

It looks dirty. Craig glares at it as it shivers beneath Stan’s gentle grip.

“I found it on the lawn,” Stan says, turning those beautiful, terrible blue eyes on Craig, those eyes that read _won’t you just let it stay the night_ , in an expression Craig has seen countless times before. Craig purses his lips. “It’s got a broken leg, but the vet’s closed now. I’ve got some mealworms—”

“Why and h—actually, never mind.” He flops onto his bed and pulls out his laptop, resolving to not care anymore, because it usually makes things much easier. “Can you put him on your own fucking desk, at least.”

“There’s…” At least Stan looks sort of apologetic, unlike Craig’s last roommate, for the pile of crap teetering dangerously between balance and free-fall atop Stan’s groaning desk. “Okay.”

Craig watches as the hedgehog runs its dirty little paws over physics notes, dragging its bad leg over his hard work. At least the last prickly thing Stan brought back stays put—his gaze flickers over to the windowsill, where Craig Jr.— _ugh_ —is looking quite healthy.

“Do you have a name for it,” he says, the words slipping off his tongue before he can catch himself. Stan stops setting aside his unused notebooks and turns to look at him. “Since you. That’s not someone’s pet, is it.”

“I dunno.” Stan lifts it back into the Tupperware container he sometimes uses as a makeshift habitat, lined with tissues and a small towel. He puts a tray of water inside and watches the hedgehog drink. “What, you wanna keep it?”

Craig snorts. “You’re really asking me that.”

When Stan comes back from washing his hands—so he’s learned after all, after the last muddy dog fiasco—he comes to sit next to Craig, yawning so ridiculously loud that Craig half-shoves him off the bed. “What?”

“Let’s name it…” he taps his chin. “Craigory the Third.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Craig says, feeling his face flush warm. Stan’s eyeing him again with that shit-eating grin, and he tries to focus on typing in his password. “What’s with you and that, anyway. Prickly stuff.”

“Hey, I wasn’t going around looking for hedgehogs to pick up.”

“Let someone else help it then.” It’s currently pawing at the walls of its enclosure, but Craig decides to ignore it. Surely Stan knows what he’s doing. “I’m just saying.”

“You still think it’s cute.”

“I prefer the succulent.”

“Well,” Stan says, climbing back onto the bed again, this time holding a hand down on Craig’s leg so he can’t be pushed off so easily, “Maybe I have a fetish for prickly things.”

Craig stares at him, face hot. “Gross, dude, I don’t need to know that.”

Their gazes hold for a second longer before Stan shakes his head, whatever exasperation Craig had been developing evaporating the moment Stan leans in and puts his lips on Craig’s own.

“That means _you_ , dumbass,” he says, when they break apart. In the background the hedgehog runs in circles around its container, as if agitated, though Craig remembers vaguely in his state of mild euphoria that they can’t see all that well, really.

And Craig, lips still tingling from the sensation, finds no ready retort but to go back for more.


	26. stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> roadtrip across eurasia au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how many fucking roadtrips will i write

I.

Turning thirty had been mostly uneventful; a quiet birthday dinner and well-wishes later, life returned to normal. It was boring, Stan had decided, and although Craig’s outlook on life had rubbed off on him in more ways than one that was something of a turning point for both of them.

So when Stan had proposed the cross-continental trip to Craig at some point over Thanksgiving, Craig had looked him in the eye and said quite crossly, “What the fuck, no.”

Which quickly turned into “if you go alone, you’ll like, die” as soon as Stan found a way to badger him every waking second they spent together after work, draping himself over Craig’s body after a particularly nasty fight with his boss, whispering in his ear in bed at night. Craig was like a rock, hard to wear down, but Stan was in the end clearly the more stubborn of the two.

It explains their current predicament: at the stoplight, arguing over which way to turn.

“It says go north!”

“There’s fucking construction there,” Craig says, the jackhammer in the distance agreeing violently with him as its noises travel through the entire intersection. Behind them comes a string of impatient beeps followed by cursing in a language neither could understand as anything but _leave before I shank you_ , so Stan turns left and straight into a pothole.

“ _Fuck_ this,” he says. Craig gives him an exasperated look, but he holds his tongue, for once.

They manage to get it out with the help of the local bakery owner whose shop sits behind the road, and afterwards they have the most delicious khachapuri Stan has ever had before, which does not say much as the concept is entirely new. He wonders aloud to Craig why they don’t have this in America, and Craig tells him if he eats any more he’ll turn into Cartman.

(They get some for the road, regardless, before exiting the bustling streets of Tbilisi.)

  


II.

Their Toyota almost gets rear-ended halfway across Mongolia, where their only companions have mostly been long-haul trucks full of things Stan has never seen before, and a road so uneven he’s starting to think they might need more water at the rate Craig’s been getting sick at the wheel. Stan feels little better.

Craig stops to let a herd of sheep cross the road; they look different here, burlier, their long faces looking at him mournfully as they head to the grassy knolls on the other side. Once past that tiny stretch of green the land becomes yellow again, stretching forever into the horizon in vast quantities of rocky soil and desert. There is hardly anything save an occasional patch of yurts and animals wandering on and off the road. The mountains are beautiful, in the distance, and Stan thinks about home.

“Imagine living here,” he says.

Craig shrugs, looking up at the geese flying in formation. “I mean, people already do.”

Stan can’t tell if it’s already drifting snow, or if it is simply the dust rolling around again. The sky is an impossible blue above their heads, but it will not last long.

  


III.

It’s when they’re in Sichuan that Craig discovers (rediscovers, more like) Stan’s intolerance of heat, which he uses to his full advantage as by this point he’s got an internet connection. A few taps at the map lands them in front of a hotpot restaurant, and by the time Stan figures out where they are it’s too late.

It’s cold, he tells Stan, and Stan reluctantly agrees that perhaps some heat is needed in these trying times.

“I fucking hate you,” he yells later, from the bathroom. He could hear Craig snickering outside like a fourth-grader, somehow having completely avoided Stan’s fate by not biting down on any of the bright red bulbous peppers.

“I still hate you,” he murmurs at Craig when they’re in bed, all wrapped up in each other because the heater had decided to stop working halfway through the night. Craig says nothing in response, seemingly asleep, but Stan could hear the beating of his heart has not slowed down through the covers. “I’ll get you for that.”

“Try me,” Craig whispers, pulling up the covers around his face, keeping the warmth inside.

  


IV.

Growing up out west meant seeing their country as it is: vast, the mountains flanking the sky, the land without end. But here it is more than that.

Out here, the road stretches wide and lonely. Stan had expected as much, although the sheer extent of what they had set out to do seemed to only hit when they were well and away from the city, when he could no longer read much of the signage anymore. For once Craig isn’t asleep: he’s looking out the window, at the quick-fading light, at the stars. There are no other cars on the road.

For a moment, Stan thinks about pulling over and grabbing Craig’s hand—

“Can you read Chinese?” Craig asks, shattering any thoughts of romance as he points out the window. “Or whatever. I think we should get off the next exit.”

“I don’t,” Stan replies. They take the exit as specified, get lost in the mid-sized town for thirty minutes, and find a seedy run-down motel. It looks like all the other ones they’ve stayed in so far. But it doesn’t matter, Stan thinks, as he waits for his signal to connect, so he could tell his mother where he is. Craig's sitting next to him, half-falling asleep, murmuring something about going out again later, just to look at the stars again. They're brighter here at this elevation, even with the air pollution. Stan tells him yes, yes, of course, even as he watches him close his eyes like a cat and drift off on Stan's shoulder.

Nothing else matters when Craig’s here beside him.


	27. thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween, i don't know what the fuck this is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very unsexy vampire au. this was supposed to have more but it got too long i'm maybe splitting it with either another day or a standalone later o(-<

It’s only when the first faint rumble in the distance reaches his ear that Craig realizes he’s absolutely fucked.

The situation is bad enough with his car coming close to breaking down in the middle of nowhere, after he’d hit that—whatever it was, some animal that’d shot past too fast for him to see. Light is rapidly fading as he manages to park on the side of the road, where the grass grows almost half as tall as he is.

Bad, bad, bad.

“This fucking _sucks_ ,” he growls as he climbs out to check the engine; whatever’s wrong with it seems to elude him even as he shines a light into the hood. Of course his piece of shit car would break down in the middle of the mountains instead of when he was in Denver just a few hours ago.

These mountains are not a pleasant place to stay the night, especially in this time of the year. The roads are winding and lonely, ones he’s traveled before but never likes staying long in.

Craig fishes out his cellphone: the signal is weak and unsteady. He calls Clyde, but gets the annoyingly long message to leave a voice mail instead.

“Fuck,” he says. Several texts later he goes back to the car and wonders if there’s any chance of a car passing by he could hitchhike back to town with, one that isn’t driven by a serial killer. He’s not superstitious about this, but.

But.

The thunder rumbles overhead again, nearer this time. Craig considers ducking back into the car to wait for Clyde (if his text gets read, ever—it’s a Friday, god knows what’s going on) or sleep it out. The heater’s down, and he doesn’t have much but an extra jacket in the back…

He remembers then, the house looming through the canopy, maybe half a mile or so back. It had looked creepy then, but he’d seen lights—surely that means it must be occupied. Craig doesn’t know what kind of weirdo would live out here, but the house had looked large; whoever lived there surely wouldn’t want a dead college kid on their hands. Maybe.

Ten minutes and no signs of other cars, but even if there were car thieves around, his beat up piece of shit would be a sorry prize. Craig locks the door, takes out the keys. And for once, against his better judgment, he starts walking.

Presently he begins to feel droplets of rain hitting his face like fine mist, and he opens his umbrella, an unsightly bright purple monstrosity gifted by his sister last year. At least it might serve as a warning beacon that there’s someone walking along this godforsaken road. But still, no cars come his way…or the other way.

It’s also starting to get really cold.

He sees the light in the distance, tiny but there. As much as Craig doesn’t want to step into the faint path leading off the side of the road, where the tall grass could contain any matter of wildlife he wouldn’t want to meet. The switchblade in his pocket would be useless against a mountain lion or a bear, or a human if one would jump out at him suddenly. The thought, or the cold, makes him shiver a little.

The shadows flicker in his vision as he approaches, carefully navigating through the forest with his phone illuminating the path. Then he sees the gate, tall and imposing, something he hadn’t been able to see from his car.

Huh.

There’s a speaker attached, so weathered Craig isn’t sure if it’s even connected to anything anymore. He presses the button and looks around, trying to figure out if climbing in and getting shot at would be worth it.

A flash of lightning cuts across the sky, startling him into dropping his umbrella. He takes a step back to pick it up just as a staticky sound flickers through the speaker.

“…”

Craig hears nothing but breathing, or what he thinks is breathing. He frowns; is this a joke?

“Hello? I’m sorry, but my car broke down outside…”

“What do you want?”

It’s not an old person’s voice, which could be good. Craig leans in closer. “I said my car broke down, like half a mile down the road. Can I borrow the phone? I can’t get any signal out here.”

He considers adding _not a serial killer, promise_ , but that would probably not go well around these parts. Whoever it is on the other side pauses, and the breathing resumes, broken up by the steadily heavy rain.

“Come in.”

The gate opens, creaking heavily; Craig pushes past and closes it, wiping the rust on his jeans. It looks like nobody’s been here in a million years.

He walks past the front garden, mud squelching beneath his boots; there are flowers to either side of him, sights that would surely look much better in the daytime, but right now Craig is less concerned with the scenery than with getting his car fixed or actually getting through to home.

It occurs to him as he stands at the doorstep that this might actually be a really, really stupid idea. Not that it hadn’t crossed his mind before this moment, but the gravity of the situation only seems to manifest itself as he stares up at the looming arch above his head, the carved gargoyles perched there leering down at him. This house must’ve been here for some time, its Victorian facade almost like something straight out of a horror movie.

But movies are only fiction. He texts Clyde again: _ok I’m at some guy’s door a bit of a walk back & it’s fucking creepy will you hurry up and answer _

Then Craig knocks.

What face greets him from behind the large, oaken door is not what he’d expected at all (tall, probably dressed in all black, ready to sink his fangs into Craig’s neck—alright, maybe that’s a fantasy for another day.) The guy’s more or less his age, wearing a U of D hoodie and sweatpants. Kind of cute, underneath that mess of dark hair. Craig blinks.

“Are you…”

“I live here,” the guy says. He sounds a little wary; it’s not only Craig who’d find this situation absurd, now that he thinks about it. “Come in.”

Once inside, Craig finds it slightly less cold than outside, but at least he’s not being pummeled by wind and rain anymore. He is instructed to leave his umbrella by the foyer, and leads him into the living room, which is no less creepy than what Craig had expected. The fact that there’s an actual, working, wood-fueled fireplace of all things reminds him he’s _really_ in the boondocks out here.

“So,” he says, unsure what to do—should he sit on the worn leather couch? Warm himself near the fire? Craig could see the guy pouring water in the dark and quickly realizes that none of the rooms are actually lit. “No lights? Are you like, a vampire or something.”

The thunder rumbles outside as the guy puts down the glass of water and stares at him.

“I am,” he deadpans. “Phone’s next to you, by the way.”

Craig stares back. “What?”

“I said landline’s next to you. Or do you want me to call pickup for you?”

“No, not t—” This has _got_ to be a Halloween joke. Craig shakes his head and picks up the phone, dials Clyde’s number, and waits. No answer. He tries Tricia, and gets her on the third ring.

The guy walks over and puts the water on the table without saying a word. Craig’s gaze follows him across the room as he shuts the curtains, drowning out any sudden flashes of lightning that had been cutting across the room for the past couple of minutes.

Tricia, after bitching him out, tells him she’ll drive up with Karen; the shop’s probably closed by now. Craig estimates it will take an hour, maybe more if they dawdle like they usually do. Fuck.

He hangs up. Now comes the difficult part. “Hey, thanks for letting me use the phone, but, um…I don’t really want to go back outside.”

No use in sugarcoating the situation. The guy sighs and flops down on the couch, indicating towards the water. “I’m not gonna throw you out, relax. You can stay here until help comes.”

“Thanks.”

The minutes tick by in agonizing silence as they both go to their phones: Craig’s signal is still shit, but the guy seems to be doing just peachy. _Vampires can’t use phones, can they?_

“Not gonna eat you, either,” he says, looking up at Craig. His eyes are dark blue in the firelight. “I’m vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian vampire,” Craig says. Great, he’s stuck up here with some absolute weirdo for the next hour. “What is this, _Twilight_? You called Edward or something?”

The guy glares at him. “Don’t be an asshole. My name’s Stan.”

“Stan the vampire, got it.” He’d push it more, but after hearing the roar of thunder again outside, this time almost directly overhead, Craig decides to drop it before he really gets kicked out. “I’m Craig."

“Craig the asshole. Nice to know.”

Craig rolls his eyes and goes back to his dying phone. The portable charger in his pocket won’t last much longer at this rate, certainly not a whole hour. There’s absolutely no way he’s asking Stan—whoever he is, weirdo living up here in a large mansion alone, and most definitely _not_ a vampire—for anything more than he has already. Having to ask for favors was terrible, especially so from a complete stranger.

He settles for closing his eyes in a small nap, hands shoved deep into his pockets, mindful of where his switchblade is.

After a few moments he hears Stan get up and walk in the direction of the kitchen—what he thinks is the kitchen, anyway. He stays in there for a minute, then two, then three. Craig hears the sound of he refrigerator opening.

As much as his mind is screaming for him to stay put, there really is nothing else for him to do here.

“You drinking blood over there?” he says under his breath, eyes still closed. No answer.

Maybe he should check it out, in case Stan’s sharpening a knife to stab him with or something. Not that every person who ever helped Craig would turn out to be some terrible movie monster, but it’s better to be safe. He gets off the couch and walks over to the kitchen door.

“Oh,” he says, looking at the lit candles, then at Stan pouring some dark red liquid from a plastic bag into a cup. The smell of iron is unmistakable, as much as his senses are screaming at him to get out. “Oh, fuck.”

The thunder rumbles overhead again, louder this time. Stan, rolling his eyes, downs the glass in one gulp.

“I wasn’t shitting you,” he says, offering the glass towards him, crimson residue slowly sliding off its walls. Behind him, the candlelight seems almost menacing, despite the more-or-less annoyed tone in his voice. “Want some?”

Craig, for the first time in his life, faints.


	28. gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes this is just a straight-up got/asoiaf au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> includes psychic/greenseer kyle and like very minor insinuation of background tokyle. also cartman died but w/e. i wanted to do something that wasn't straight up a normal gift and then i remembered this is a thing...

The small raft sails smoothly through the canal, past the marketplace where he could see fruit peels floating in the water among other, more unsightly things. It’s ostensibly summer, but Stan pulls a blanket over his legs all the same; the temperature runs as cold as where he hails from, but that is where the similarities stop. If only to stop the children running along the canal banks from staring, though his clothing is already giving him away as a foreigner.

Braavos is so different from home.

He bids the rafter to stop in front of the temple, fumbles through his pockets for the coins, and disembarks. The house stands imposing before him, the doors weirwood on ebony, split directly in the middle. Stan takes a deep breath.

 _This is for Kyle_. His liege and childhood best friend of seventeen years, caught up in a war that neither had been prepared to be thrown into. Stan shoulders his bag and steps into the dark hallway, listening to the faint sound of running water fill his senses.

In the middle of the room is a pool ten feet across, lit by a single torch hanging from above. Stan does not go near the pool; heavens know what the priests are filling it with, so clear and inviting it is, which could only spell danger. A faint scent of of myrrh permeates the room, along with other unfamiliar spices.

He half-turns at the sound of footsteps, and sees a hooded man standing behind him, face obscured by the dark.

“I,” he starts, stumbling over his words. The man does not move, nor look at him straight, and Stan could not see his face under the hood, only that he is taller than Stan is. Stan swallows, then prepares himself.

“I am Stanley of House Marsh, from the Stony Shores of Westeros. I come…I come to seek a death.”

 

 

It should have been all, the payment that had been asked of him a year ago. The kingdom is peaceful, for the moment, though Stan’s mind is anything but.

High summer takes the northern seas with sweeping warmth; Stan had grown up in winter, but winter seems so far away now as he looks down towards the harbor, at the waters teeming with ships coming to and fro. He has not had an occasion to undertake another journey since Braavos.

Beside him, the sound of footsteps. Stan turns to see Kyle walking towards him along the wall-walk, glancing over the battlements now and then. He is here to stay for only a night, as his work takes him around the country too often now for him to stay anyplace long.

Today Kyle looks pensive, and Stan knows almost before he opens his mouth what is to come.

“I had that dream again.”

Were it any other person Stan would’ve scoffed at the idea of dreams, but there is no denying a greenseer’s visions. He stands close, unsure of his words, and lets Kyle continue.

“I think you should be careful,” he says, slowly. Kyle had been refusing to tell him about the dream in its entirety, only fragments and shadows, but Stan knows him well enough by now that it is increasingly apparent he is involved. _A loving heart_ , Kyle had told him, once, but never again. “Won’t you come south with me, Stan? It might be better there.”

 _And away from the sea_. Though all the way on the other side of the country, and defeated for the final time, the remnants of the Ironborn still give both of them pause. What little annoyances they inflict upon the land-dwelling populace now are a far cry from the days of aggressive raiding not a year ago.

It is a question they both know the answer to. Stan sighs, palms brushing against the weathered rock of the walls. _Do what is best for the kingdom._

That had always been Kyle’s answer. He says, “I will go.”

 

 

Each price is different, for each gift of death. There is no knowing what price the House of Black and White would extract from each petitioner, for each victim. And the price for Eric Cartman’s death at the hands of a Faceless Man had been gold, and Stan’s heart.

Now, the Ironborn chieftain has been dead for six months, and still no one has come forth to claim the rest.

It is not something that will be forgotten, that much Stan knows. It weighs as heavily on Kyle’s shoulders as it does his, but Kyle does not know the whole truth: only that the gold handed over to the kindly man had not been all that was requested. If there is one thing he can never tell his king, it is this.

(What good can a heart do, beating outside of its cage? Maybe it will be sung in prophesies in the ages to come.)

A small comfort, he thinks, as he rides out with the rest of the king’s retinue on the grand road towards King’s Landing. In the time that had followed the war’s conclusion Kyle had surrounded himself with many more minds in an effort to rebuild. Among them: an exiled prince from the Summer Islands, who Stan could see clearly has become affectionate with his king, a young architect from the Riverlands, a Dornish master of coin to take over the vacated place on the Small Council.

Kyle introduces them along the way, one by one, too distracted to make much small talk. Stan had surmised the journey would be as such, and strikes up conversation with the others, who are easy to talk to. All of them except the Dornishman, whose handsome, disaffected gaze keeps him wary and tongue-tied.

He does not get along well with the king, Stan learns from Clyde, but he is good with keeping the kingdom’s accounts, which have been considerably depleted from the war effort. And from their little secret—Stan wonders what excuse Kyle had given for that not small amount of gold gone missing.

But for now, that is for Kyle to worry about.

 

 

Life in King’s Landing is pleasant in physical ways—in other ways, Stan is lonely. As expected Kyle does not stay for long, traveling to the Westerlands to make amends, then to the Riverlands to oversee repairs. It is not fit for him to spread himself so thin, Stan wants to remind him, gently; that each lord could handle it on their own, but Kyle has never been one to sit still while others do things without him present.

Stan does not blame him; the years have been hard on both of them, and their generation at large. He does not like thinking much about his own parents, or his sister who had run off to Essos five years ago. Whatever rumbles of insurgency on the other side of the world is not his to deal with anymore, now that he is a man of five-and-twenty and Warden of the North. His king needs him to look after the kingdom as it heals, and that is what he will do.

He does not think about the gift, or its strings waiting to be pulled. He thinks about the people in the city, riding out at daylight to survey the streets. He thinks about the bard’s music at the jousting tournament, which he does not participate in this time, but cheers loudly for knights from his own land. He has no head for expenses, so those problems he takes to Craig Tucker, who sits and fiddles with the account books and talks little, and when he does makes some unasked-for remark that makes Stan wish he’d taken the questions elsewhere.

(He thinks about those sharp green eyes that seem to follow him to his sleep, even when his quarters are far away on the other side of the Red Keep.)

 

 

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” Stan tells him, eyes narrowed, when they meet in the halls. “But I don’t like it. The king put you in charge—”

“I wasn’t aware you disliking something foretells disaster, Lord Marsh,” Craig replies, arching an eyebrow elegantly at him. As it were, his voice is more placid than usual, though his words remain curt. “Take your issues to the king, if you wish. It does not concern me.”

He leaves with a swish of long robes, footsteps soon soft and indistinct down the path towards the cellars. Stan stares after him, an earthy, intoxicating scent lingering in the air even long after he is gone.

(That night he wonders almost feverishly where he has met with it before, but it—and other, more important things that float and sink in the waters of his mind—is something he finds he cannot remember.)

 

 

 

Who are you? _Stan asks, in his dream. This is not like his king’s visions, he is sure—he is no greenseer, no Valyrian sorcerer, and knows nothing of magic despite the blood of the wolf running deep in his veins. This is no wolf-dream, the kind he has not had since he was a child._

 _But the wolf-blood in his veins run cold with danger when he hears the voice speak:_ I am here for you, Stanley of House Marsh, from the Stony Shores of Westeros.

_He feels his heart still, then: a wretched pain, sinking deep into the cavity of his chest. There is pain, and then there is nothing but a strange, floating feeling. It is something he wants, he realizes. Something he craves._

_Stan opens his eyes and sees it then: the room with the dim torch-light, mists of incense surrounding his body. The man in the hood nods to him, holding something glistening and wet in his hand._

I am here for your heart.

 

 

 

Magic or not, a Faceless Man is a man, and all men must die.

Stan is not afraid; he has fought many throughout these years, showed his martial prowess on the field, although it is never something he is proud of. If he is afraid of his king—Kyle is in Lys, negotiating a trading pact with the magisters. Surely he will understand, and surely there are maesters who can take their places on the Small Council were one to vacate the spot.

He finds the rooms easily—there is nobody to stop him, Hand of the King, in going where he wants. But Stan is cautious, keeping to the shadows, his heart pounding all the while. If if were a trap, or worse yet, he is wrong about Craig—the Faceless Men are notorious for their secrecy, and for him to be able to sniff one out is a laughable notion.

On the other hand, Stan has never been one to take chances.

He pushes open the door, finding the master of coin reading in his bed, a sparsely furnished room with only books and a guinea-rat running in its cage. For a moment Stan does not know what to do, staring at him as Craig stares back, still holding his book.

“What are you doing here,” he says finally, eyes wary. The candlelight stills for a moment as Stan takes a step forward, uncertain. “Lord Marsh, you’re here to talk about more of that asinine paranoia of yours—”

“I am not paranoid,” Stan snaps, heart racing. “And don’t call me that. You know what I’m here for.”

Craig’s eyes flicker back to the pages of the book. “I do not, actually, and I don’t care.”

“Then—”

The moment the sword leaves its hilt the candlelight extinguishes itself. Stan feels something sharp at his neck the same moment his sword hand is twisted until his weapon falls to the ground, all in a matter of seconds.

“You really took it at face value, didn’t you,” Craig—whoever he is, whatever his real name is—murmurs in Stan’s ear, but the sensation of cold metal is gone as soon as it had come. The room is chilly, but the fingers pressing something small and round into his palm are warm. “Stanley of House Marsh, your debts have been paid. But you already knew that, didn't you?”

The next thing Stan knows is his head hitting the stone floor, and then nothing.

 

 

“Lord Marsh?”

“Do not tell anyone.”

“But—”

“I have named Lady Testaburger in charge.” A much better Hand than he is, as painful as it is for him to say. “The king has been sent a raven.”

 _Do not worry_ , the letter read, signed with the wolf’s seal. _I will be back. I’m sorry._

The ship bobbles gently in the early morning harbor, where light has yet to shine on all yet. Stan, beneath his cloak and hood, extends a hand towards the captain, and the sudden glint of sunlight seems to set the object aflame.

Trembling, the captain takes off his cap as he steps down, a hand sweeping towards the cabin.

Ahead of him, the sea is vast, but this time Stan, heart pounding loud and slow, in him and elsewhere, knows what he needs to do.

_“Valar morghulis.”_


	29. double

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yeah it's another sot au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why are they so stupid i love them

"You know,” Feldspar says, watching Stan hack away at the training dummy, “It’ll be kinda hard with just you.”

Stan doesn’t look at him, opting instead to continue hitting. “Are you just here to annoy me.”

“No, but I could.”

The woods around them are quiet. If he concentrates enough, Stan thinks, he might be able to put a face to this dummy, and maybe that’ll help. He could feel Feldspar’s eyes on him as he looks at the dummy, readies his sword, and imagines dark hair, lanky limbs…

Kyle’s quest this time, as it were, required him to take on the job of infiltrating one of the border fortresses between their land and the humans’. _Alone_ —there is little manpower to spare among the elves, even for training, what with the increased skirmishes going on along their entire line of defense. The Wizard is planning something big, that much anyone could see.

Stan had assured his king that sending him alone would be nothing to worry about, but now he isn’t so sure. The fortress would be heavily manned (numbers are one thing humans always hold over them), among other issues that he doesn’t even want to think about right now.

He turns towards Feldspar, who’s lounging about on the tree like a lazy cat. “Great, then get down here.”

The thief doesn’t scare him, even if he works for Clyde now—nebulous sense of loyalty and that one incident in the forest aside, at least there’s one thing Feldspar is useful for.

“Why.”

“Spar with me.”

“…No.”

“You don’t even want to beat me up?”

“Nope.” He looks down at Stan, who tries to looks as threatening as humanly possible. It’s not very convincing, in the soft afternoon sun shining upon this forest glade. “I can do that any time. What’s in it for me, hm?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Right. You scared of me, gotcha.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

For a moment neither speak; then, Stan steps out and hacks at the tree with his sword, almost taking off the tip of Feldspar’s boot. He yelps and jumps off the branch, landing behind Stan with a thump. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you—”

Stan shrugs, tapping the ground with his blade. “You want to go or not, pussy?”

Feldspar dusts himself off as he stands, eyes narrowing at Stan. “Don't start crying for your mom then, Marshwalker.”

And then, before Stan’s eyes, there are two of him.

Alright, maybe Stan should’ve envisioned this happening. But before he could dwell too much on it he's already raising his weapon to block an attack, the sound of metal clanging reverberating through the woods. In his peripheral vision Stan could see the other Feldspar sneaking around from behind, dagger drawn.

This is a game they’ve both played before. Instinctively Stan kicks at the soft ground, sending up a find cloud of sand between him and the Feldspar in front of him. Both of them cough violently, though Stan ducks down as the dagger flashes overhead. He elbows the one in front of him in the knees and hears a thump, then rises out of the mist to deal with the one from behind.

Except he’s already gone. Stan barely has enough time to look up before something lands on him heavily, knocking the sword out of his hand. By the time he’s come to Feldspar already has a dagger at his throat, though the look in his eyes is less murderous than amused. “You’re starting to play dirty too, huh.”

“Guess I spend too much time around you,” Stan says, rolling his eyes. He pushes the tip of the dagger away from his neck. “Get this away from me.”

“No can do, sorry.” Feldspar leans in, smirking. “Shouldn’t I _get_ something since I won.”

“Since when did you win,” Stan replies, before digging his fingers into the ground, staring straight up, and kneeing him in the crotch.


	30. jolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> craig thinks about stan's eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka craig is a big pining gay; also poemfic bc it came over me while i attempted to prose, so, uh.

i’ve seen you around town before,  
keeping to the walls,  
hands on the window lonely, eyes like radio buzz:  
waiting, waiting;

 

i’ve seen you around town before,  
smiling eyes at the candy store, footsteps intermingled,  
a laugh like silver bells and more;  
i’d love if you could

 

save some of that warmth for me,  
please. i heard someone singing on the rooftops,  
maybe in a dream. was it you?  
was it rain in the clouds, high  
over the evergreen trees.

 

that day in the football field behind the school where the mud stained our sneakers  
and the dark blue of your gaze fell over  
me, fell over me like a spell  
i wonder now,  
remembering your name on bleeding fingertips,  
how you laughed and said it’s fine.

 

(in the playground sandbox years ago our eyes met and it sent  
such a feeling down my spine.  
like a falling star opening up in the sky above  
in light and in fire,  
i wished, i wished for…)

 

i’ve seen you around town before,  
the curves of your lips a lightning  
flare, i know. i'll know anywhere.  
someday, someday  
i’ll be electric too.


	31. slice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a dinner party folks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand we're at the end! some slice of life (uh. haha...) to end this
> 
> thanks so much for reading! even though this went into november ahaha

_11:49_  
hey get some ham when u get off work  
i forgot to on wed

 _11:52_ **Read  
** what  
YOU don’t eat ham?

 _11:56_  
oh  
wendy  & bebe are coming over tonight  
sooooo  
i guess we roast it? idk

 _11:59_ **Read  
** …you didn’t tell me that

 _12:04_  
uh  
oops  
haha

 _12:21_ **Read  
** goddamnit stan

 _12:25_  
…please

 _12:38_ **Read  
** ok fine

 

Craig doesn’t really have anything going on tonight, truth be told. No going out with coworkers (not like he ever plans on it), no dinner plans with family (Tricia lives on the other side of the city now, but she has her own friends, and despite their mother’s wishes for them to see each other regularly - well), no scheduled League sessions (Clyde and Token are going on a weekend getaway down to California, apparently.) It’s not like he’s mad at Stan; these are people they’ve both known for long.

It’s just that - _ugh_ , neither of them could cook. Stan eats rabbit food and protein powder and Craig subsists on microwavables and other questionable things that come in sealed plastic containers. And it’s not like the girls don’t know this (they must be laughing all the way driving here, Craig decides, bitterly.)

He thinks about asking Stan to book a place, any place, instead of letting them eat whatever garbage they’d put out later. But by now he knows Stan’s adamant about doing things on their own when it comes to entertaining anyone coming over. Craig had pointed out once that neither of them are against going over to someone else’s place and just ordering pizzas, but that’d just gotten him admonished even more.

That, or Stan’s still so whipped for Wendy that fifteen years and the discovery of him being gay later, he’s still got a Pavlovian response to impressing her. Shit.

It almost would make Craig mad, but it’s also kind of adorable, when Stan turns that kind of attention on him.

So he gets the ham, some eggs, tomatoes, whatever looks like it could pass decently as presentable human food, and drives straight home.

 

“Why are we looking at Buzzfeed videos.”

“Do _you_ know how to make shakshoukas.”

“Okay, so why the hell are we making sh— _what_?”

“Slice the fucking carrots, Stan.”

The ham is in the oven—glazed, hopefully not too sweet (who knows, Stan had dumped way too much sugar into the mix), but will probably burn if neither of them keep an eye on it—and they’re chopping up shit for the recipe. Craig has no idea how to entertain anyone food-wise (now that he thinks about it, hadn’t they all just gone out to eat the last few times this happened?) and certainly Stan is of no help.

So. Buzzfeed it is.

“…Are you sure this will work.”

“Fuck no,” Craig replies. Stan stares as he roughly dumps the ingredients into the bowl. Well, at least he’s honest. “Did you tell Wendy we’re probably going to give them food poisoning.”

“What?”

“I said—ugh, flour.” Stan had—key word, _had_ —taken it upon himself to make cupcakes, earlier. Craig had watched Tweek do it when they were younger; watching Stan’s attempt had been a heart-stopping event, mainly because he dropped the pan and sent flour everywhere at one point. Now he’s watching Stan swipe across his face to get at an itch, and suddenly there’s a splotch of white on his cheek. He certainly _won’t_ tell Stan he finds it kind of cute, not in this state. “Why didn’t you just say, we can eat out, we’ll pay, whatever.”

“I,” Stan says, tongue-tied. He’s looking at Craig mess around with the tomato paste, hands covered in red sauce and a fine dusting of cayenne pepper, his shirt (thank god they’d decided to change into something less nice earlier) stained with unidentifiable red and yellow splotches over the flour. Craig raises an eyebrow and turns to check on the vegetables on the stove. He sees his phone light up next to him, eyes the message, then back to the sizzling pan.

Then, realization.

“Wow,” he begins, turning around and seeing Stan wiping his hands on the towel, guiltily looking away. “Hey.”

“What?” Stan says, a little too quickly, a little too indignant at the accusatory tone in Craig’s voice. _Bingo_. “I-I didn’t—”

“Stan?” And then, when Stan doesn’t answer quick enough, Craig goes in for the kill. “ _Honey_ , you know, I just messaged Bebe and she said—”

“Alright, alright!” Stan’s blushing solid red now, and as much as Craig wants to revel in his victory he knows he’s not far behind. “I just. Wanted to see if you would. You know.”

“I know?”

“…You’re really cute when you cook.”

“I,” Craig says, putting the oven mittens down, his cheeks too warm for comfort even in the midst of all the other heat sources, “Am going to kill you.”

 

 _6:45_  
sorry but this is HILARIOUS  
we’re still invited over though right  
like  
u guys cooked  
right

 _6:50_ **Read  
** do you want food poisoning

 _7:00_  
taking that as a yes  
we’ll be over in twenty  
also tell stan he owes us one now xoxo

 _7:09_ **Read  
** i hate all of you

 _7:10_  
ur so whipped love u too


End file.
